#its beautiful and precise and impactful and i love it

[chilope]

losing my mind about bisa butler again now. i want to take a fucking. art history class about just her. like how you can take classes on van gogh and monet and shit. i hope she writes a book someday.

[markrosewater]

Elegance

Here’s my original article for Elegance.

 This is a topic I’ve wanted to write about for a long time.  Ironically, the words needed to explain the concept kept the column from being elegant. So I did what all artists do.  I found a way to say a lot in a little space.

 Enjoy,

 Mark Rosewater

 [NOTE: EACH OF THE ABOVE FIFTY WORDS IS HYPERLINKED.  BELOW IS THE FIFTY HYPER LINKS.  THE HEADERS SHOULDN’T BE ON THE LINKED PAGE.  I’M JUST INCLUDING THEM SO YOU KNOW WHAT EACH LINK IS.]

 ELEGANCE

 Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary has five definitions for elegance:

 • refined grace or dignified propriety

• tasteful richness of design or ornamentation

• dignified, gracefulness or restrained beauty of style

• scientific precision, neatness and simplicity

• something that is elegant

 The common elements appear to be dignity, simplicity, and taste.

 THIS

 Elegance requires thinking, but it also requires feeling.  Elegant prose is judged by how it makes the reader feel. It needs to generate a sense of calm that puts the reader at ease.  Everything in your writing should feel as if it was carefully positioned to create the proper effect.

 IS

 Pound for pound, the writer’s greatest writing tool is the verb.  Nouns add substance and adjectives add flourish, but it’s the verb that drives the sentence.  Choose a strong, descriptive verb and the sentence has flair and purpose. Choose a weak one and the sentence lacks any sense of drama.

 A

 Here’s a little game to test an elegance relevant skill (based on an old game called Inklings).  Randomly choose a noun.  Try to convey that noun to the other players using the least number of letters possible. You’ll be surprised how much you can communicate in just a few letters.

 TOPIC

 One of the greatest stumbling blocks to elegance is the inability to choose a single focus.  Elegance requires simplicity.  Simplicity requires a single purpose of thought.  This means that elegance starts before you write a single word.  A good sculptor must know his image before he picks up his chisel.

 I’VE

 One of the common misconceptions of elegance is that it requires a writer to be fancy. Elegance though is more about familiarity than formality. You shouldn’t be afraid of friendlier language such as slang or contractions, assuming that such language adds an element of ease rather than one of laziness.

 WANTED

 An important element of elegance is a sense of passion.  Brevity does not mean pulling away emotionally from words, but rather the opposite.  When you find yourself limited to fewer words, you must pack each individual word with extra emotional punch.  You are not reducing your message, simply your messenger.

 TO

 A good tool in understanding elegance is studying poetry.  Poetry is the most concise of all written art forms.  It strives to maximize impact while minimizing expression.  Each word carries the burden of evoking some essence of the poet’s message. If it cannot carry its own weight, it is excised.

WRITE

 To be an elegant writer, you have to become a student of prose.  You have to study the mechanics of language to understand how it can be shaped.  Once you have learned how to transfer the feeling in your head into meaningful words, you are on the path to elegance.

 ABOUT

 Be careful not to fall in love with ambiguity.  While intoxicating in its beauty, it is the enemy of elegance. Remember, the goal is not to make the reader struggle for comprehension.  Rather it is to lead them to the obvious conclusion. Elegance should be used to illuminate, not confuse.

 FOR

 Elegant prose requires connecting with your reader.  To do this, you have to understand who that reader is.  Nothing should come before this task.  It needs to be done before writing can begin. I like to compare this to planning a trip.  Maps are useless until you know your destination.

 A

 Another major key to elegance is the understanding of the importance of the tiniest detail.  Just as a chain is only as strong as its weakest link, a piece of prose is only as tight as its messiest detail. A good writer doesn’t stop at the nouns, verbs and adjectives.

 LONG

 Don’t confuse elegance with brevity.  Elegant things are short not because they have to be but because the difficulty to craft an elegant piece of prose combined with the limitations of time forces writers to be brief.  Elegant novels, for example, do exist, but they are few and far between.

 TIME

 To quote Roman orator (and letter writer) Marcus T. Cicero, “If I had more time, I would have written a shorter letter.”  

 Simplicity takes more time not less.  Anyone can get a point across with ten thousand words.  But a true artist can do it in ten (or possibly fifty).  

 IRONICALLY

 Irony is a potent tool for commentary.  Its genius lies in the fact that it comments not on what is, but rather on what isn’t.  Like all good humor, irony makes you laugh.  But like the best type of humor, it also makes you think.  It’s both funny and funny.

 THE

 Elegance in writing is about more than words. Equally important is how the words are woven together. Tempo, pacing, rhythm – these are the tools that set the mood for the piece.  Try reading aloud your text.  The natural beat of language is more suited for the ear than the eye.

 WORDS

 To realize the power of words, you must first understand how they work. Art is expressive; words are connotative.  That is, words draw their power from their ability to extract different ideas from different people.  A circle is a circle, but the concept of “scary” varies from person to person.

 NEEDED

 Elegance is not the result of any one attribute.  It is the combination of numerous factors coming together in harmony. This is why it’s such a hard skill to master.  Most people can pat their head or rub their tummy.  But put them together and it’s not quite so easy.

 TO

 An elegant piece of prose needs to hit the reader at a gut level.  Often they won’t know exactly why they like it, but they will recognize that something about the piece moves them.  There are many types of writing where subtlety is lost.  Elegant writing isn’t one of them.

 EXPLAIN

 There are many ways for you to explain an idea.  The most elegant one though is not through definition but by example. By connecting your idea to one already known by the reader, you’re leaving the work of teaching to someone in the past.  Education is hard.  Comparison is easy.

 THE

 If writing is like building a house, the structure is like the foundation. Its design will dictate how the house is built.  If it’s faulty, no amount of fancy brickwork will undo the damage.  So take the time to ensure your structure is building the kind of prose you want.

 CONCEPT

 Never underestimate the power of a concept.  An important part of elegance is condensing big ideas into little words. This is far from an easy task.  It often takes a genius an entire lifetime to create a truly innovative concept.  So take advantage of all their hard work and inspiration.  

 KEPT

 A common barrier to elegance is the belief that only one way will work. Often a writer is unable to abandon a beloved piece of prose even when evidence demonstrates otherwise.  If something doesn’t add to the larger sense of the piece, you have to learn to let it go.

 THE

 Readers notice things at a minute level far beyond their mind’s ability to interpret. This means that although they may not consciously notice many of your tiny details, they will do so unconsciously. Aesthetics teach us that it’s this unconscious structure that will determine whether or not it feels “right”.

 COLUMN

 All communicators, whether through speaking or print, need to find a voice. A voice provides familiarity and it teaches the listener or reader how to more quickly absorb the information. Elegance is all about the conservation of ideas.  Having a pre-learned voice to guide you is a very valuable tool.

 FROM

 I’ve spent some time talking about understanding your reader.  But there is one more person who is even more important to understand �� yourself. Writing is about sharing your ideas with others.  If you haven’t spent the time to figure out what you think, how can you possibly communicate it?

 BEING

 “A picture is worth a thousand words.”

 Or so the saying goes.  What the cliché forgets to mention is how many words a single word is worth.  For example, take the word “being”. To capture the essence of what “being” represents is tens of thousands of words if not more.

 ELEGANT

 What is the value of being elegant? Why should you care? Elegance adds aesthetics. It evokes poetry.  It grants beauty.  Elegant prose draws the reader closer because it gives them something to not just learn but to admire.  Good prose stimulates the head, but elegant prose resonates in the heart.

 SO

 Who, what, where, when, how - all important questions.  But for a writer they pale next to why.  If you don’t understand the reasoning beneath the surface, the other details are irrelevant.  The act of elegance is cementing the why.  It’s taking the purpose and engraining it into the piece.

 I

 Elegance is a very personal thing.  If something doesn’t resonate with you, there’s no way for it to resonate with your reader.  Writing is an art, not a science.  There is no rulebook for how things must be done.  If your instincts are telling you that something isn’t working, listen.

 DID

 An important tool in your toolbox is time. Elegance cannot be rushed.  Mental ruts only get deeper the harder you focus on them.  Make sure to work time into your schedule so you are able to walk away from your writing. An hour next week is worth a day today.  

 WHAT

 Don’t let attention to detail pull you away from having a larger sense of what you’re writing.  Take this column as an example.  While I spent a lot of time fine tuning each entry I never lost sight of the effect they created when all the entries were put together.

 ALL

 Elegance requires taking a holistic view of writing.  Every word, every sentence, every paragraph is a piece in a larger puzzle. It’s not enough to understand the impact of a single element. You must understand how any two elements interact if you want to understand the potency of your text.

 ARTISTS

 Elegance and art are very intertwined.  Both seek to achieve a similar goal: to illuminate and inspire with a conservation of expression.  If you’re trying to be elegant, I think it helps to think of yourself as an artist. The instinct for the latter mirrors the needs of the former.

 DO

 An important part of any writing is understanding the feeling you’re trying to evoke.  And then realizing what mechanic tools you have available to evoke that feeling. Diction, verb tense, sentence length, alliteration, word flow, phonetic juxtaposition – each of these will control the mood and tone of your piece.

 I

 A writer’s life is the ultimate fodder.  Don’t be ashamed to plumb your own experiences.  You understand them deeper and more personally than anyone else.  No painter would refuse to use his finest paints. And, as a bonus, by using your own experiences, you will become better educated about yourself.

 FOUND

 Don’t forget that the act of revealing is also an act of exploration.  Don’t be afraid if you learn more than the reader you’re trying to educate.  Writing is not an exact science.  (Or even an exact art.)  Often you will find that the road to salvation has a fork.

 A

 Your future is paved with your past.  If you want to learn how to grow as a writer, you need to look back at what you’ve written. With time and a detached eye, your will find your mistakes become clearer.  Remember that it’s failure, not success, that bests drives education.

 WAY

 The problem with looking for a single solution is that you’ll never find more than one.  And the first one isn’t always the best.  But if you’re open to the possibility that every problem has an infinite number of answers, you’ll have the freedom of choosing the solution you want.  

 TO

 Sentences are filled with freeloaders.  Because writers seem to love overwriting. (I include myself in this camp.)  Make sure to create time for the editor side of you to prune unnecessary words.  If a word can be excised without any harm to the sentence, it has no right being there.

 SAY

 I’m spending my time today talking about elegance in prose, but most of what I’m saying is applicable in speech.  The key difference is that prose has less defining attributes like appearance or tone.  The key to elegant speech is making people focus on the words rather than everything else.

 A

 It’s ironic that something designed to be so simple can be so complex.  But that, my faithful readers, is the joy (and mystery) of elegance. Like an onion, elegance has numerous layers that reveal themselves as you slowly peel them away.  Oh yeah, and it can sometimes make you cry.

 LOT

 An interesting exercise is to look at each word you’re using and think about how much content is loaded in that word.  Then explore what other words exist that fulfill the same role but with added content.  Once you’ve found the word you can’t best, move onto the next word.

 IN

 A good way to get better at understanding elegance is to look for it in every day life. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised where and how often you find it.  Study each example carefully and try to see if you can put your finger on what makes it work.  

 A

 Writing is a shared endeavor.  No one owns the words.  If someone uses a technique that works, there’s no shame in borrowing it.  Like science, writing creates technology that’s brought back to the group to spur further advancements.  Elegance is hard enough to accomplish without refusing to use the toolbox.

 LITTLE

 How big should a piece of text be if you want it to be elegant?  The answer is as big as it needs to be – and not a word more. Just think of it as playing the game Jenga. Keep pulling words out of your prose until it collapses.  

 SPACE

 One of the most important lessons in art is learning the value of negative space, the idea that the eyes are equally drawn to what isn’t there.  Prose has a very similar quality.  When writing pay careful attention to what you aren’t saying. Often it will speak the loudest volume.

 ENJOY

 For some reason people tend to equate dignity with seriousness.  And as such they come to the false conclusion that elegance has no room for humor.  Ironic as humor is one of the most elegant of styles.  A good joke is no longer than is necessary to do its job.

 MARK

 As is always true when I head off the beaten path, I am curious to hear your feedback.  What did you think of this article?  Was it entertaining?  Was it educational? Did you actually read all fifty links?  And if not, why not?

 Tell me.  Inquiring mind wants to know.

 ROSEWATER

 I couldn’t end this week’s column without my trademark closing.  I mean, how inelegant would that be?

 Join me next week when  I go from being a letter man to a Letterman.

 Until then, may you learn to appreciate now just the “what” but the “how” and “why”.

 Mark Rosewater

[kaiser1ns]

#. YOU CAN CALL ME MONSTER

featuring 𝘁𝗮𝗸𝗶𝗶𝘀𝗵𝗶 𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗸𝗮 𝘅 𝗳𝗲𝗺!𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿

angst. takiishi chika was the one completely covered in flames and you are the one who will burn his world down.

recommended to listen to exo's "monster" because i worked with the lyrics and that song screams takiishi chika

Why is his heart racing? The way you look at him got him going crazy, you are truly beautiful, a goddess, a force powerful enough to destroy everything. From the feral Umemiya Hajime to the cruel Endo Yamato and the bloodthirsty Takiishi Chika — you remain the most terrifying. A sadistic, tyrannical woman who Takiishi let into his already dull world.

There’s curiosity in your eyes, you’ve already fallen for him but won’t let him in. He’ll knock one, two, and a thousand times, so will you answer him, will you let him into your heart? Don’t be afraid, they say love is the way, it keeps you on safe ground, a place where its roots start to sprout deep into the ground...but what if the soil doesn't allow it? The same ground is falling apart, covered in ashes, it’s unstable and destructive.

You can't help it, it's just a habit, you do this for fun. You are not afraid to cause a scene whenever you want, you do it all the time and this is how it's going to be. Takiishi stands before you, his eyes are wide and burning, and you know what he sees — a girl who is on the brink of madness. He can call you a monster if he wants, and he can kill you if he feels like it. You can feel the pain coursing through your body, but it only sharpens your focus: pain is your most trusted friend, not your enemy. Slipping under his guard, delivering a sharp elbow to his ribs, as his groans and whimpers are music to your ears.

You are dangerous, if anyone gets in your way you will never stop til you get everything you want. You are on the top now, higher than the king and queens, mightier than God himself, ruling the world made by chaos. You are just getting started, as you see fireworks in the sky and bodies on the ground. In your beautiful black dress you dance, the red pool and the colors dancing above. Where is everyone hiding? It's time to celebrate, it's a funeral to many, to your morals and values, they are probably long gone. So is your sanity, as you laugh and smile like a maniac. Destruction and chaos, no one can run from them, and nobody will survive when you are there causing them.

Lunging at him with a speed that belies your injuries, your movements are precise, your fists connect with his jaw followed up with a swift kick to his stomach. But he’s also not done yet. He swings, aiming for your head, but you duck, spinning behind him. Before he can react, your hands are on his face, cupping his cheeks so softly, your lovestruck eyes, betraying the violence as you stare at him. There’s something in his eyes—fear? Love? It’s hard to tell. But you don’t care. You slam his head against the wall with a sickening thud, the impact reverberating through your hands. He grunts but recovers quickly, you can tell he’s holding back, still underestimating you.

A fatal mistake.

You grab his collar and hurl him to the ground with a monstrous strength, your grip stronger than steel or any metal, you can't reshape or melt despite his hotness. His body hits the floor, and you waste no time driving your foot into his face. So beautiful, your one and only love.

But Takiishi catches your leg with his hand, yanking you off balance and sending you crashing down beside him. You hit the ground hard, but you’re already moving, twisting your body to get back on your feet. The dance between you continues, two burning flames consuming everything in their path, neither willing to fade out, it is not about who will die first, but who will dominate the other.

You are creeping into his heart, flipping over and breaking him down until you swallow him up. Even if you die, you will live forever because you got yourself engraved in his heart, body and soul—you messed him up and now you will pay and collect your debts. He doesn't recognise you or himself anymore. Out of your minds. To love is to be changed.

Don't let this blissful moment slip away, you are both going crazy, and this day will be remembered for eternity. There's so much to give you—he doesn't need no money, no material benefits—he only wants you. He wants you so bad.

You are a monster.

A bit impatient and not that gentle, a woman of many faces and masks. You thrive on conflict, creating it, nurturing it, watching as it grows and consumes everything in its path. It’s all a game to you, where you always win because you’ve written the rules. You are addicted to the thrill of it, the way it makes your heart race, the way it brings a sick smile to your lips when you make your love bleed.

But he wants you, that's right you are his type, his heart doesn't lie, not when it sends a dangerous signal and you know you make him feel a tremble, he is crazy for you, you know that, you always did. Everyone’s afraid of him, the so-called strongest but he is nothing but a boy with burning desires to have fun. In the end, you can’t reject him, hiding and stealing glances at him, then pretend to be surprised when he looks your way. He’s a part of your existence and you will make sure to destroy him by loving him.

To accept you for who you are, worry has no place here, not when you show such strong attraction to each other. Enjoy the agony that you’re able to endure, as he falls deeper inside in his own world, thinking that it's gonna be the same pattern, the same old way but then again it's your game, with your rules. Play with him however you want as you lash out with relentlessness force, each punch harder than the last, each punch showcasing your affection. He doesn’t fight back; he never does. Your strength surpasses his, and he knows it.

Bruises form under your knuckles, but he takes it all, absorbing the pain like a twisted confession of love. You’re a beast consumed by the madness inside you—stronger, more ferocious than anyone he's ever faced, yet he does nothing but take your blows. You're a monster, they say—insane to the core—but this insanity is yours to own, and for him to enjoy.

You are his monster, insane and fierce, burning his world to the ashen ground and building it again and again, until he finally gives up...until you finally let him in.

taglist :: @nyxypoo @meidiary @maruflix @heartkaji @stunie @slerixx @mydream-synopsis @kiurona

thank you mei, zevie and ke for doing a beta read, i love yall mwah🫶🏻

©2024 kaiser1ns do not copy, repost or modify my work

[amputeewomen]

Hooked

Hi, I made a new Instagram post:

https://www.instagram.com/p/C3uEd_DIaI7/ Would be great if you could like this post and the one on Instagram. Thanks so much Here is a story for the pic:

Isabel was always the kind of person who found a silver lining in the darkest of clouds. So, when an unfortunate accident at the local wood mill resulted in the loss of both her hands, Isabel didn't let despair take hold. Instead, she embraced her new reality with a spirit that was as unbreakable as the polished, shiny hooks that now replaced her hands.

At 22, Isabel was the epitome of resilience wrapped in a rather pretty package. Her coworkers at the mill, initially unsure how to react to her return, were soon won over by her unwavering positivity and, frankly, her uncanny ability to grab things with her prosthetic hooks. Isabel quickly became not just proficient but impressively dexterous with her new appendages, turning tasks that seemed daunting into feats of skill that left onlookers in awe—and often in stitches.

Isabel's adaptation to her hooks became the stuff of legend around the wood mill. She was known for her "hook hacks," innovative ways to manipulate her prosthetics to perform tasks ranging from the precise (sketching designs for the mill's custom woodwork orders) to the mundane (winning the annual chili cook-off).

Her fame as the mill's most adaptable employee was only surpassed by her sense of humor about her situation. Isabel often joked that she was now the most "metal" worker at the mill, both literally and figuratively. She'd make grand entrances into the workspace, proclaiming, "Make way for the Iron Lady!" Her colleagues couldn't help but laugh, their initial discomfort replaced by admiration and affection for Isabel's indomitable spirit.

The mill became known in the local community not just for its quality wood products but for Isabel's inspiring story. She became a bit of a local celebrity, with people from neighboring towns visiting just to see the "girl with the hooks" in action. Isabel welcomed them all with open arms—or hooks, rather—always ready with a quick joke or a demonstration of her latest hook-enabled skill.

Despite the accident, Isabel's love for the wood mill never waned. She saw her work there not just as a job but as a part of her identity. Her hooks, polished and shiny, were not symbols of loss but of adaptation and resilience. Isabel's story wasn't just about overcoming adversity; it was a testament to living life on one's own terms, finding humor in the face of hardship, and inspiring others to see the beauty in what makes us different.

In the end, Isabel's legacy at the wood mill was not defined by the work she did with wood but by the impact she had on the people around her. She showed them that life, much like wood, could be shaped into something beautiful, no matter what tools you have to work with. And that, perhaps, was the funniest twist of all: the girl who lost her hands but found a way to hold the hearts of everyone she touched.

[ihopeinevergetsoberr]

the counterpart

chapter 8 — fly on the windscreen (final)

wc: 11k~ (a lengthy one, i know, but i spent two months on this for a reason).

more angst, chess metaphors and depeche mode references (sorry). but i promise i fixed it. and besides — who doesn’t love a good makeup sex scene? oh yes, i went all out with that one. you’re welcome.

—

In 1956, at the chaste age of thirteen, Bobby Fisher made history. 

Game of the Century — that’s what people dubbed it, and it sure did deserve the title: a teenage boy defeated an international master, and with precision so oddly fascinating, that it instantly put the whole chess-world in a strangling chokehold. You never paid that event much mind — young geniuses are not that rare of a thing in this pedantic industry. But Viktor claimed it impacted him — he, too, won his first significant tournament at thirteen, and therefore related to Fisher immensely. 

You remembered the day he told you this in explicit detail: it was the third evening of your affair — right before the mangled bouquet incident. He showed up a tad later than he usually did — and you smiled, realizing that such time-defining adverbs were now acceptable to use while referring to his treasured visits. He was wearing a plain, frayed shirt: a smear here, a patch there: had to help his professor in the lab with something awfully urgent. You rushed to get him out of that sordid thing. Helpful hands popped all buttons open and nudged him softly into the shower. You liked him to enter the filth of your bedroom clean, so the traces of it last longer afterwards. He always complied. 

By the time you set up the board and settled on the comforter, cross-legged, he was done bathing. His skin no longer smelled of dust and machinery, the slippery swiftness of it longing for your attention. He walked out bare — both due to the lack of spare clothes, and because you’d shed them off of him even if those happened to be thrown somewhere nearby. His chest swelled under your hand, flushed and wet.

You made love. It’s funny how fast you stopped calling it just ‘sex’ or ‘fucking’ — oh no, with him you suddenly saw the act of letting someone into your flesh gentle, and, accordingly so, couldn’t just abide by those two simple terms. Sometimes they failed to embrace the concept. 

He tastes of soap and salt when it’s over. Sweat politely intrudes the new, fresh smell of him, and you kiss its tiny drops off his clavicles — two beautiful dips, fragile masterpieces of skin and bones. He laughs and lets his eyes rest. You watch his pupils move under the veiny eyelids, and his lashes tickle your finger when you swipe it gently over those delicate things: to feel the soft movement underneath, to absorb every internal shift in him — his heartbeat, his wincing, the fall of his stomach when he exhales. You wonder if he does the same when you don’t notice. 

“Can I show you something?” It comes out of him strangely flimsy, in a much thicker, throatier timbre. You nod, and he reaches for the board. 

He shows you the Game of the Century. Has it memorized by heart: goes over each move with excited commentary, and his eyes beam almost as passionately beautiful as when he looks at you, dreamily mesmerized. 

“I don’t get it,” you murmur. Your head rests on his lean thigh, pieces a shaky, hlack-white horizontal blur. Scrawny fingers tangle little loops into your hair. “Why did Byrne never take Fisher’s queen? It was right there in front of him the whole time!” 

Viktor chuckles. Bends down to kiss you softly on the temple and smirks discreetly when your pulse touches his mouth, rapid and intense. Playing chess with him always gives you lovely headaches. 

“Because Fisher offered it to him on purpose. He wanted to perform a Smothered Mate.” 

“Oh.” You humm. 

Now you saw it. 

—

You roll over to intercept the little affection. Prop your back with both elbows. Let him comfortably straighten his spine. It’s sweet that he allows it to twinge for you, even if just for a moment, but you don’t appreciate such sacrifices.

Teeth hurt a bit from a sudden clash, but he soothes it when tongues twine, circling lazy patterns. It’s slobbery — a tad clumsy, even, but you like it that way: wet, raw, and terribly, sorely tender. 

He takes you again. Disperses a hundred breathy ‘laská’s all over your pliant skin — neck, and shoulders, and breasts, and thighs. They’re still there, even now that he’s gone — now that you made him go, but the traces of him are no longer sweet and darling. They’re bits of pleasure you were never worthy of, a constant reminder of how you treated that soft man. Not as boldly dark as they used to be: plum started to dissolve into faint, flimsy yellow. The plague of his lovebites, the lasting symptom of his fondness. 

You think of that evening again. 

“Thank you. For showing me this.” You nod to the board and hop on the windowsill to light a cigarette. His heart tries to find its way out of his sternum, muscles still twitch in the afterglow of his orgasm. Both a vision: him — a tired one, full of delicious soreness, you — candid and gorgeously smudgy. 

He rolls on his stomach and cocks a brow, meets your gaze with a warm half-smile. “And here I thought you weren’t interested in a tutor,” sasses delicately. You threaten to throw a lighter at him. You both laugh. And when the balmy sound dies down, his intricate eyes narrow cat-like. They cautiously slide over your form with a quizzical little flicker, and you know he’s contemplating something — it’s visible in his every motion, in the humm he makes before finally daring to be bold. 

“Could I request something… a little risqué?” he finally asks. 

That intrigues you. You take a hissy drag and lean on the glass behind you, wincing when smoke comes out of your nostrils. “I don’t know,” you muse tortuously, “could you?” 

“I would appreciate it if you dropped the obstinacy.” 

“Viktor. I’m probably giving a view of my naked ass to god knows how many people in the building in front of us. How much more risqué can it get?” 

“And yet, I prefer to be certain. Don’t taunt me here, milackú. Please.”

Please. You love it when he says that. There’s something so syrupy about getting this word out of him, and you’re not sure you ever wish to bid farewell with that little addiction. 

He crawls to you out of a damp mess of sheets, pale skin almost peachy where the evening sun embraces each bony slope of his. Thin arm reaches for something on your nightstand and snatches it. Has you smiling in curious bliss when he leans closer, almost falling off the edge of the mattress. Finds some leverage in your hanging off the windowsill legs and clumsily curls around them, pressing the gentlest of kisses to each knee. Now you rise above him, gorgeously drowned in a forthcoming sunset, and light peeks through your fingers when you spread them to catch a hold of your cigarette. 

Viktor hands you the ‘something’ he stole an instant earlier. It’s your seedy “Canon”, with  its murky lens looking up at you, reflecting the perplexed frown of your face. You run a finger over its cold, metallic frame. 

“Does this have any film in it?” Viktor asks. Places his chin on your thigh and stares, beautifully hopeful. You shrug.

“Most definitely. It might be expired, though. Why?” 

He gives it a thought. Leans into your touch and sighs gratefully when you cradle his cheek and stroke — a loving swipe of a trembling thumb over his hollow features. His kisses strike again — now to the inside of your palm, a whisper of a touch, warm and a little ticklish. 

“I want to take your picture,” he finally mumbles. 

You almost choke on the filter. Ashes fall on your skin and Viktor rushes to blow the damage away —soothes it gently before it burns through. 

“What? You mean… now?” Your voice is weak when you say this. Not due to shame or some other internal quandaries — you’re astonished, and it entertains him, makes him laugh again when you pull away to stare at him mid inhale, smoke a bitter halo around your disheveled hair. Yes, he wants to capture this. He absolutely has to. 

“I’d like to savor this,” Viktor explains. “In a more… tangible way. If only you’re willing to indulge me, of course.”

Of course. 

He says he doesn’t want you to pose. A rather hard request, considering the scenery: it simply calls for a pretty arch, for any method of glamorizing your crippling addiction and sheer immodesty. But you aim to please him. Your shoulders laze, narrowed eyes try to sneak a sly peek when he presses the shutter button. He tempts you to smile — the way he bites his tongue in an earnest search of a flattering angle. The flawless intimacy of taking a boudoir picture. You wonder how the local CVS workers handle those. Then chuckle, realizing they’ve probably seen much worse.  

Viktor clears his throat. 

“Can I… have it? After you develop those?” His plea is careful, hushed. Always so sickeningly polite.

“What for?” You torture him again, letting yet another stub rest in a porcelain grave of cigarette bums. Viktor shrugs. 

“Oh, I… I suppose I could keep it in my wallet. After I receive your permission to be that bold.” 

“In your wallet? How scandalous!” 

“Scandalous?”

“Exactly. I’m wearing nothing but thin air in there. Doesn’t it bother you?”

“No.” He shakes his head so innocently it makes him look grotesquely oblivious. “Should it bother me?” 

Your foot softly presses into his chest and pushes him back on the bed. He meets that fate with a dainty laugh, and it’s even lovelier when the rest of you follows along, mindful not to make him wheeze. A harmless vengeance, a tacit promise of what’s to come. And he welcomes it, each hand awfully tender in a cautious hold of your rear, curled in the most adoring of squeezes.

You hover above his face, smiling. “I doubt it came out beautifully.” 

He smiles back. “Of course it did. It has you in it.” 

And he’s almost right. Because it comes out perfect instead. 

—

Here you are, in the mighty fervor of your bareness, your cigarette a sparkly scepter between delicate fingers. It’s a little grainy, yet still lush with saturation — all yellows, pinks and reds, flowing prettily into terracotta precisely where sun wraps around the curve of each breast and dark nipples — those gorgeous lines of stilled tenderness. Head thrown back, mouth parted to let out a livid smoky mist — he must’ve caught you mid exhale: so conveniently brusque. Pure art in the obscene privacy of your bedroom. 

…But it’s been a torturous week of avoidant silence, and your bed, albeit filled with memories, feels terribly empty — wraps you in its reproachful mess and strangles relentlessly, and you have no desire to come back to it anymore; seven languid dawns met anywhere but in the sheets. 

All because comprehension is cruel, and it deprived you of resting, solace long gone alongside him — his tenderness, his touch, his patience. Oh how you longed for it, how agonizingly jealous you grew towards that proudly naked version of you from the picture: she was yet to find out how the lack of him really feels, how heartwrenching his resentment can get. It pierced through you — that all-consuming, frightening realization. And precisely when you first got your hands on developed film, too: Viktor will never have it. He doesn’t want it anymore.  

Heartbreaks always come with additional obstacles: finals week made college feel like a coffin, tight, and suffocating, and overwhelmingly grim. It reduced your days to a torturous routine of turning in essays and sneakily running around the campus in between exams: made you attend to every single precaution in the book to avoid bumping into him. 

You even stopped visiting the engineering department to catch Jayce for once obligatory debriefs by a cigarette — the risks weren’t worth exchanging even the messiest dirty rumors. Besides, what’s there to tell him? ‘I started fucking your ‘grandmaster’, developed a feeling I’m afraid to admit even to myself and screwed it all up by letting my wrathful tendencies take over’? Yeah. That’s not exactly an event one boasts about. 

So you found salvation in misery. Stuffed yourself full of its moping weight, wore it like a veil, showed it off whenever something called to leave your self-prescribed hermitage — an ostentatious ‘Look, I did this to myself!’ So craven. So pathetic.

And you couldn’t look at chess anymore. The image of his sinewy hand was now forever attached to the only board you owned, hovering above the pieces in its usual pensive manner. It wounded you. Filled you with some visceral, peculiar rage — and you couldn’t even tell towards who exactly. It’s like you were suddenly deprived of all the other feelings and now had to make do, seeking solutions in disposing of everything he ever touched in your room. But that would also include your skin, so you quickly abandoned the thought. If only the memories of that last draw were that easily escapable. You swallowed yet another frustrated swear. 

Something about it all seemed oddly… awry. Specifically his queen moves: Viktor was never the one to open harshly, he attacked much deeper into the game and preferred initiating trades — rude invasions were more your style, after all. But that day he developed your approach: you were certain of it, trembled whenever reminiscing hit you. 

And tonight it hits you right in the gut. 

—

You’re down to your last cigarette and it makes your throat wail — you’ve had more of those tonight than there are hours in a whole day. Lost count of desperate, big gulps of wine, too, and even considered asking the Lord himself to turn all the water in your apartment into more of that life-saving beverage. The irony hears your prayer, making you cackle, and ‘Sweetest Perfection’ slowly fades into the sexy guitar riff of ‘Personal Jesus’. But instead of reaching out to touch faith you touch the stop button. It’s hard to appreciate music when a headache is splitting your head in twain. 

An utter mess — that’s what you were, scrunched on the floor in your underpants, trembling fingers tracing chaotic circles over the surface of your favorite record, the tournament notes wounded with a wine stain. Your board laid tiles down, crushing the pieces, evidently knocked over in what looked like a livid splutter. 

Viktor could’ve won. He should’ve, actually — it came down on you when wrath died down just enough to finally set the pointless self-deprecating aside. Better late than never, and yet living in ignorance didn’t seem that agonizing now that you deigned to analyze his moves. 

He didn’t offer you a queen exchange. You were certain he chose to refrain from it on purpose: because that would’ve extended the match, allowing him to move his king someplace safe. And, concurrently, aim for a winning position. Viktor, of all people, wouldn’t miss it — which meant he showed you mercy. Always so goddamn caring — fuck, how blinded one must be to overlook something so gallant? 

He still cared about making you leave with a good rating, swallowed his pent-up pride to evolve all that into a draw. Played with his heart for once. A charity, of sorts, and normally you despised that — would tear him a new one for even assuming that you needed such leniency. But not this time. Not after he responded to your onslaught with chivalry. 

Your world is fuzzy when you reach for the door knob — all astigmatic spurts of light, drunkenly smeared and heavy. It’s a night of spontaneous decisions and you commit to it like a martyr: first deciding to indulge in game analysis, then drinking yourself to death over each new discovery.

And now you wince, slipping into your loafers, feeling their harsh press into those swollen spots under each buckle-bone. No socks. No pants, either. Just half-naked fervor and a long leather coat to loosely wrap around yourself — the only armor you need to run outside and head straight towards his dorm, shivering when chilly air softly creeps up your bare legs. 

It’s terrifying how fast decisions are made when you rely purely on liquor and shaky crumbles of messy sanity; with what menacing speed you rushed for him, breathless and murky-gazed. Fingers fumbled with the sharp edge of that erotic monstrosity you slipped into your pocket before running out the door: something kept restraining you from disposing of it, made your hands twitch whenever you held that picture above the weak fiery tongue of your lighter. Viktor deserved to take a glimpse at it. Even if he decides to burn it himself immediately after. 

You swiftly sneaked past the concierge in awkward, wasted excellency. Stumbled over a threshold with a sobby grunt. Almost expected someone to catch you, to enquire why could you possibly be headed to a young man’s room at two in the morning, with just a weary leather cover compensating for your lack of decency. 

But you’ve made it. Stood by his door before dazed mind even managed to realize just what you’re about to do, knees so pitifully shaky you might just be swept off your feet. Figuratively, first, when your white-knuckled fist dares to knock. Literally, when his footsteps shuffle in your direction. 

You know he’s not asleep. It’s almost like he never is — except for those sacred hours when you somehow manage to tire him out: a rare occasion, a calming little tribute. Your heart shrinks when his hand peeks out, tightly curled around the door knob. He’s tense: more so than ever, weariness prominent in a heavy lean on his cane, eyes dreary and red at the inner corners. They flicker in mistrust — stare through you in a way only he possesses, intricate enough to reach your very gut, chase down the drunken audacity and cut it abruptly at the base. You’re not sure if it can save you the embarrassment anymore. 

Viktor snaps out of it — blinks his momentary awe away and frowns, quizzically hostile. Pale wrist flicks in a sudden rush to fix his unbuttoned shirt: he doesn’t know you came to beg for a truce yet, thinks you might just go for his throat if he doesn’t put up a defense quick enough.

It pains you. Stabs your own neck and twists that thing a few torturous times before you finally remember how to breathe. A silly thing, a craving to lay your heart at his feet — to be bold, or desperate, or either of those at once. Easier said than done, because your courage is in shambles as soon as his lips twitch, and the crease of a pretty mouth you grew to adore suddenly feels like a vicious personal attack. And it only intensifies when he sighs, utterly forceless. 

A rocky start. Even rockier now that he huffs your name out like it’s a swear, and disbelief contorts him, deep and flush-cheeked. 

“Why are you indecent?” He all but hisses it, the perfect mad man — all awe-struck copper and audacious glimmer in the depths of his wide-snapped eyes. Has you hiding both quivering legs behind the leather closure of your coat, suddenly shamefully aware of your state of undress. Should’ve never let that impulse win, should’ve waited until morning, but how were you supposed to fight something so potent, so atrociously urgent? 

“I had to see you.” A whisper, a silly blunder. Like a pathetic attempt at getting out of a fork — a sacrifice of a piece to postpone a checkmate. 

Viktor blinks at you in bewilderment. His throat is dry — it’s prominent in an awkward cough he chokes on, in the way he averts his face. 

“That doesn’t explain much,” mumbles finally, staring into the floor. Bites his cheek to muffle an angry comment, watches you sullenly with repressed bitterness. “Why are you here?” 

It’s a simple question. A straight-to-the-point one, too — he doesn’t move an inch, pierces right through you with the pressure of his anguish. And it’s only fair, after all — you butchered his heart and vanished into a week of soul-crushing silence, only to return with no purpose, answers and pants. If anything, he’s being quite charitable by even letting you in. 

“I couldn’t sleep.” God, would you just tell him already? How much longer can you drag this madness out, how much more liquor do you have to consume until it finally drowns your sorrow? No, that won’t do. And Viktor thinks so too — scoffs with a rageful glare, grabbing a hold of the door knob again.

“Then I suggest you retreat to your room and take a melatonin. Good night.” 

“Viktor. Viktor, please—“ 

You cling onto that appeal with every ounce of your desperation, his name a harsh clash of consonants on your wagging tongue — a slurred and rhotic last resort, a hasty mess of shaky syllables. And, strangely enough, it works: urges him to recoil, to return the tremulous stir, to let you see that blend of hurt and confusion in the blown out voids of his pupils. It’s almost like you’re pushing him to the verge of his kindness, bearing witness to every inner change. Here he is, grim and distant — all clenched jaw and enraged inhales, softening into promising mercy. Through a condescending sigh, no less, but you’ll take it. Oh, you’ll take it alright — because this is not a negotiation. This is redemption at any cost. 

Viktor resigns. Whispers a tired “Come in” and points to his bed, watches you limp inside with a weak, disapproving head shake. It’s a walk of shame — grumpy sounds of skin as bare feet drag pitifully on the floor, shoes and coat shed off carelessly somewhere at the entry. 

An abrupt sound of him fumbling with the lock, then a few light thuds of his cane — you absorb it all, waiting for your execution, eyes nailed to the parquet, skittishly following little wooden patterns. You don’t know what to say to him, and it’s terrifying — sure, wine must’ve triggered the motive, but it can only get one so far. And now you crumble, shrinking when the mattress bends by your side, the cross of his lanky legs cloudy in your peripheral. He keeps his distance, seated at a good arm’s length: too close for a shot, too far for an embrace, just enough to add to your agony. Rubs his forehead with a somber wince, turns to look at you with a harried pout, so tragically handsome. A bunch of veins twined tensely on that pretty ivory neck. 

“Please, say something,” begs you hoarsely, setting his cane aside. “Don’t torture me with your silence. It depletes me. And, quite frankly, I’ve had enough of that.” 

You swallow thick, pushing that lump down your throat with immense effort, bitter sticky spit foaming at the tip of your tongue, threatening to come out if you don’t shove it down your stomach quick enough. Tastes of drunk, delirious promises. And you must spew them out before they drool out on their own.

“I’m sorry.” This comes out slurred too, but you don’t mind the stumbling as long as it gets the message across. Viktor scarcely cocks his head, all flushed ears. 

You proceed. 

“For the tournament. Well, for what I did to you before our game, I shouldn’t have— Fuck, how do I even put this? I shouldn’t have done it. All of it.”

Your tear is in your mouth before you know it, and you swipe your tongue over a chapped lip, rushing to get it out the way while he remains still, simply waiting for you to continue with a straight, cold face. Almost kills you with that indifference, or whatever it is he’s trying to sell for it, but you don’t even think of backing off. You have to look at him. You ought and want to.

“I was cruel,” you confess, gulping down a sob. “Extremely so. It’s the rage, you see. I’m a fucking slave to it. So afraid to be hurt that I rush to do the hurting myself. But you… You, with your good intent, and your endless kindness — you, of all people, shouldn’t suffer from that ugly flaw of mine. And I’m sorry for being so full of it. For making you a victim of my crudeness. And for disappearing to bask in it, ever so selfishly. I didn’t run away because I don’t care. I ran away because I’m a coward.” 

He simply nods. Tortures you with a few more seconds of painful silence, sitting up with a curious humm. Locks both trembling hands together and  lets his thumbs take turns, circling over each other. Wheezes out a careful ‘Are you, now?”

You huff. “Of course I am. It took me a week to say this to you.” 

“But you’ve made it after all.” Viktor shrugs. It’s hard to tell if he’s being genuine or sarcastic, especially when his gaze keeps crashing you with all its reticent spite.

“Yes, but this is not the way to approach this. It’s not like I didn’t consider crawling here earlier, though—“

“Crawling?” he interrupts. Treats you to a minute of quiet turmoil, waits for you to clarify with a sharp inhale. Props himself on a fist and scoots closer, hovering above your face to scrutinize it intricately. “Are you intoxicated?” finally guesses when the evidence hits him in the nostrils. 

You shrink away, blinking in confusion. Wasn’t it obvious?

“Yes,” you respond in a skittish whisper. “And I’m sorry for that too. I just… I couldn’t bring myself to come to you earlier, but then… That draw, you see. It didn’t sit right with me, and so I tended to some self analysis. I noticed what you’ve done. Noticed what you sacrificed to make me walk out of there with a decent rating. Even after the way I’ve treated you. It made me hate myself so bad I felt the need to flush it down right that instant. But it only got more unbearable to endure any longer. So I simply… Ran out the door to tell you this. I shouldn’t have. Well, now I know that I shouldn’t—“

You’re rambling, and it’s a lengthy, fidgety monologue. So utterly terrified that you can’t even keep track of those ugly cries anymore — they fly out in between words, cutting into a fusion of your candor and hysteria.

But Viktor doesn’t soften. If anything, he’s even sharper now, frowning deeper with every new sentence you throw at him. Cuts you off with a scoff, wagging his head in bewilderment — like he can’t stand to even look at you, let alone listen to any more of these heartful babbles. Curses in Czech under his rapid breath. 

“Unbelievable,” he blurts out, turning away. “So that’s how you view me? That’s how you view us? A meaningless, casual affair you can abandon whenever you please and then repair with a few desultory ‘sorry’s? Is that what I am to you? A foolish suitor undeserving of a proper, sober apology? Well, I’ll have you know that I’m not one of your pawns. And I won’t put up with it — not in a hundred years.” 

Your panic comes back, drawing a snappish bawl out of stinging lungs, and you sniff, trying to push those unsavory tears back where they belong. Unkempt nails bite into your palms, leaving a violent pattern of rouge, deep punishment. 

“You don’t have to put up with it,” you speak again, trying to redeem that heavy home truth. “I don’t want you to.”

“Stop mentioning that,” Viktor demands with a furious scowl, making you gobble up that stupid semantic. “I’m in no need of your elaboration.” 

“But I truly mean that!”

“Mean it all you want, but don’t expect my approval just because you finally deigned to throw a plea at me. I did nothing to merit that. Both the insults and this mess of a repentance.” 

That one does the job. Peels the scab off your wounds, urging each evil goosebump to rise — and thank god for the soft bed under your trembling form, because your knees feel like soaked cotton, unsturdy and doomed to fail.

But you force them to obey, springing up above him in a snappy jerk. It’s a classic, of sorts, like a denial of a King’s Gambit: he doesn’t take the piece you offer him, aiming for something else instead. Something more crucial, and so inherently fragile. Stares up at you with his head thrown back, threateningly beautiful in the sheer shadows that blinds cast on his face. Urges you to seek silly symbols in the way your lack of clothes contrasts his utter modesty. 

Here you are — raw and exposed. One step from shameful nakedness, standing trial in this state of non-sexual, sudden nudity. Here he is — armed with thick fabric, not a smidge of his usual emotive range prominent in both expression and attire. All edgy cheekbones and pure, unfiltered anger in the slight twitch of a bushy brow. So snarky when it arches, challenging you to keep going. To fight for forgiveness for once. 

“You’re right.” It’s a simple statement — a calm, casual acknowledgement. Still teary-eyed and puffy, but those are merely debris. You wipe them away, ready to strike again. “I am a mess. A mess like no other, that’s for sure. I don’t expect you to fix me. I simply paid you what’s due, and you’re allowed to send it back — I’m in no position to demand you forgive me. I never wanted to do that anyway. I’m simply sorry. For mistaking your help for malice, for letting the fear of losing my silly independence win, for prioritizing it over the bond we’ve built. And for not giving you the apology you deserve. Truly. That might just be my biggest regret so far.”

Viktor doesn’t respond. His chest feels heavy, swiftly falling after each deep breath. He’s taking you in — bare legs, bare soul, bare feelings. A sweet contradiction, a living oxymoron in the suspenseful darkness of his bedroom,  but he doesn’t know what to do with you, how to save either of you from the power you hold over each other. 

This calls for a solution. And you come up with one, attempting to step away, already eyeing the corner you’ve thrown your coat into. 

“I should go,” you propose, carefully inching towards the door. “That would be the wise thing to do.” 

But Viktor’s views on prudence evidently differ. Because his fingers gnaw at your wrist, startling with the tight strength of their gentleness. Such a warm handcuff — it reminds you of your starvation, of just what you’d cross to experience him like this again — insistently gracious, caring to his very core. Pulls you towards him, biting a cheek when you don’t slip away. Realizes the extent of your desperation and sighs, admitting that his own reaches the same depth. Wins a silent staring competition when you blink, completely dazed, finding your voice in a weak ruckle of his name. 

“No,” he drawls, squeezing firmer, “you’ve done enough ‘wise’ deeds tonight. I’m not sure I can endure one more.” 

“I know, Viktor. That’s why I need to go.” 

“You’re a fool if you think I’m letting you walk out of here in that state. You came to apologize, after all. It would be quite counterproductive of you to storm off sobbing instead of achieving your initial goal.”

Your lashes flutter again, flicking a tear. It crawls back into your eye, blurring the world around you, and you rush to rub it out of there, freeing your hand out of his insistent grasp. He lets go, surprisingly reluctant. 

“I thought we’ve already established that I’m in no state for this conversation.” 

“Indeed, we have. Which is exactly why you’re going to take a shower and go to sleep, so your wits are about you when we’re back at it in the morning.” He then clears his throat, fighting a sad, hopeless smile. Loses when the corners of his mouth inch up, adding a sarcastic “I would, actually, lend you a melatonin, if it weren’t for the consequences of mixing it with alcohol. But your loss, I suppose.” 

He’s quieter with that remark. Spares you a moment of familiar, light-hearted comfort — all hushed chuckles, lost, frustrated glances, and fidgety, lonely hands. 

The embodiment of confusion, of bitterness that still fights to linger around, but doesn’t stand a chance against longing. Reducing the smartest person you know to a love-struck man that has no idea how to save this, yet wants you to stay so badly. Even worse when you look him in the eye, shyly asking if there’s any hot water left for you to use. 

The world makes sense again. Or so it seems.

— 

Your dream is lucid — a blend of bizzare, threatening images stirring you awake every time the thing gets too real, forcing bloodshot eyes to snap open and search for him in the opaque darkness, pulse a racing, unpleasant thump in both sweaty temples. Only simmering down when you manage to make out the skews of his shoulders: distant, but so darling. So many torturous inches separating your back from his — it’s more gaunt than you remember, the lopsided arch of it suddenly more bitter than ever, and you quit stealing discreet peeks, nuzzling back into the clean, mint-scented comfort of his pillow. Drifting back to yet another frenetic vision, thinking about how strange it is to share a bed with Viktor without lying tucked under his sharp, bony chin. 

You wake up morbid and, expectedly, hungover. Still wearing both scandalous garments you barged in — numb fingers slide over an exposed thigh, then rub the bridge of your nose hard enough to snap the delicate cartilage. You watch the ceiling tarnish full of flimsy black holes, whimpering as it cleanses of them just as swiftly when your sight repairs itself after a long squint. Shaky arms rummage around, stilling mid slow caress over Viktor’s side — still warm and slightly bent inwards, that overwhelming evidence of his presence. He left you an aspirin and a silly note:

“I have a final to take. Will be back at 10. Don’t you dare run away. 

P.S.

Please, don’t drink coffee. Your head will kill you.“

Your finger stumbles, covering the sharp ‘V’ in the lower corner. An excessive little gesture — as if you wouldn’t guess the sender if he didn’t sign it. You put the sweet warning away and swallow the pill, wincing when it scrapes its way down your throat. 

The morning finally starts.

Sore for whatever reason legs still hang back, and you force them to oblige, scrunching over the sink when those bratty, boneless appendages finally get you to the bathroom. It’s a lifeless, automatic routine — except you have to smear the toothpaste all over your teeth with a trembling finger. You thought of buying a brush to keep next to his for the nights you’re over, but now it repulses you, urges to avert your tired eyes from the mirror: what if you fucked it up beyond return? What if there’s no ‘for when I’m over’ anymore, but only ‘for when I used to be’? 

You don’t embrace that revelation. It appalls you, makes you crave the tasteless comfort of a cigarette — but you ran out of them last night, and, concurrently, respected Viktor’s strong preferences for keeping your favorite vice at least out of his room. And it’s not like this horrific anticipation should last much longer — self-doubts were kind and time-consuming, carrying you through fifty five minutes of tedious, head-in-hands agony. And when the key finally clangs, albeit a quarter later than expected, you rise from the unkempt bed, untangling from the blankets. 

He looks collected: walks right past you, rushing to rid that lanky neck off the strangling tie. Softly hums an unbothered ‘Good morning’, sparing you nothing but a reserved nod, and you writhe upon that calm violence, watching him tend to yet another languid habit — as if both the tournament and last night never existed, as if him simply coming back from a tiring final is the only thing that’s happening in this room, and you’re going to watch him settle back into his domesticated, quiet life. 

But no, you’re convinced that it’s a vengeful punishment — a silent treatment to make up for the one you put him through during your endless days of lacking courage. And so you sit, mouth agape, while he fetches his notes out of a shabby bag, flipping through them with a casual yawn. Plugs the kettle into an outlet, running a hand through a short row of tea boxes on the desk (you only managed to notice that little collection now), then shrugs, picking out a random one with a casual finger-flick. Stills in a half-turn over an angular shoulder, cursory inquiring what flavor you prefer. Driving you deeper into tremendous confusion. 

“I.. Whichever you like,” you mumble from the bed, chewing on the inside of your cheek. Only stopping when it starts to slightly taste of iron. 

Viktor understands. Hands you a steaming mug and pulls out a chair to be seated right in front of you, and it all resembles a pitiful, canonical therapy session — even the way you stare at your tea (chamomile, so it seems), shamefully making out the floating, whimsical reflection of your face in the brownish liquid. Wondering if it’s hot enough to burn your tongue. Preferably, to a decent degree. 

Viktor coughs. Crosses his legs again — always chooses that pose for uncomfortable conversations, whereas you always shrink embryo-like — a disparity to his almost professional manner. Oh just how he sits, vestless and relaxed, taking a slow sip. Makes you wish you were the cup, so he could wrap his hand around you and squeeze — to death, or bliss, or revulsion. Anything, but apathy. Please, no more of that. Please please please. 

“How are you feeling?” he asks. Grabs the mug by its rim and holds it like one does a wine glass, lets you see the tension in each fingertip. You return to staring down, unsure how to approach the question. Really, though, how do you feel? Scared? Excited? Nauseated? Sorry? You’re sure he gets it by now. And, therefore, all this — is a penalty. It’s only right. It has to be. 

You shrug, letting a whiff of fear invade every sharpened sense. Chamomile joins in, too. This time, evidently. 

“Are you punishing me?” you finally croak. He frowns at that, treats it like the silliest nonsense to ever be said out loud. Rushes to shake his head, to deny and prove wrong. And it confuses you beyond belief, forces an exchange of wide-eyed, bewildered gazes. 

“No,” he insists. “Of course not. I’m asking because I want to be certain that you’re able to proceed with the colloquy. That wouldn’t be possible were you still under the influence of any… substances, would it, now?” He adds with a chuckle. Dry, and curt, and failing at easing anything at all, but you still believe him. You choose to, even if it’s hardly plausible. 

“Yes.” You offer him a lie. “I want to proceed.”

 It’s best he doesn’t know how not ready you really are. 

He gulps, then. Waits for your confession to unravel, plowing through you with the sheer power of patient madness, even if that doesn’t make much sense — how can someone stare with such urgency, yet remain so gentle with it? You know you’ll find him drawn to you if your own eyes dare to move from the slowly growing lukewarm tea. 

“Were you cordial with me last night?” He finds a way to pluck the answers out of you, appeals to something you’re convinced is always the case with your inept amends.

“Of course. I always am.” He arches a brow, causing you to reconsider. As if to cut you off with a silent, cheeky ‘Really, now?’. 

“I meant… I’m always sincere with my apologies,” you try to recover, setting your mug down on the floor before it slides out on its own and shatters into pieces. Can’t have it sharing the destiny of your stability. 

“I just… I’m really struggling to understand you here,” he spoke softly, putting his own tea away — and it’s left forgotten on his desk, like a non-verbal, inanimate testimony. “Why would you turn to anger in response to aid? I don’t think I’ll ever distinguish that, you’ll have to excuse me here.”

“No, that‘s a… really good question.” 

“Answer it, then.”

“I don’t know if I can.” 

“That won’t ease our quandary.”

“I’m aware, but… Just let me think a little. Please.” 

He lets you. Invites you to help yourself to all the time in the world, but you only take two minutes — it’s important not to squander his generosity. Especially when you don’t know exactly how much more he has to spare.

“It’s like… Caro-Kann, and I’m playing black,” you finally mumble, knowing he’ll ask to elaborate. 

“Caro-Kann?” Viktor muses, visibly besotted. As if he expected you to think anyhow but in chess.

“Mhm. Seems so safe and solid, and yet the development is so slow, and the board lacks space for me, and white can be so unpredictable with their responses—“

“Yes, I’m familiar with the disadvantages of this opening.” He raises a hand, stopping you from burrowing any further into tiring theory. “Please, get to your point.” 

Your pulse thumps a march so terrified it echoes in your throat, swells above your left breast into something unbearably massive — capable of breaking the ribcage and rolling out to his feet. It reverberates in your temples, too, and you squint, as if enduring a migraine. Eyes shimmy down to pathetically shaky knees. 

“When I play Caro-Kann, I prepare for an attack from white,” you continue carefully. Viktor looks at you, attentive to the bone. “But it doesn’t happen — and I panic. Like I’m all ready to be aggressive, to sting if you come any closer, and you just choose… not to. Here I am, with my developed bishop, threatening a check, but you ignore it and play something like… say, pawn h4. And I grow livid, and my pieces fly all around the board, but it all seems so useless, because you haven't taken anything from me yet. And I take first, and inevitably lose by taking more and more — because I was scared to let you do it to me first.”

“That’s just ridiculous,” he protests. Crosses both lanky arms on his chest, leaning into the chair. Rests his neck on the top back, glaring from beneath heavy lids. “You’re not supposed to play it like that.” 

“Exactly. That’s why I like gambits. You always know what to expect with a gambit. Even if your opponent declines it, you know it’ll hurt later. For both of you. It’s predictable, and beautifully violent. It’s what I’m used to. Not only in chess.” 

“As much as I’m infatuated with your skills at merging logic with poetics, metaphors are not my forte. I’d much rather you explain in layman’s terms.” 

Hearing Viktor call himself that sounds almost blasphemous. But you don’t argue with his wording. You fix your posture and recline, mirroring the angle he looks at you from — your one last death rattle before resignation. And he waits, fumbling with a rolled up sleeve. Getting more vulnerable, inviting you to follow suit. His eyes fill with contradictory, somber candidness. ‘Get right with me,’ they beg of you discreetly. 

But begging is hardly necessary. Not when he’s entitled to knowing the truth. 

“I see you as a threat to my independence. Not just you, I suppose — anyone who’s not responding in a way I know how to handle.” 

Viktor nods. “So you’re implying that you only know how to handle… mockery?” 

“Correct.” You stop to gasp for air, the sharp pang of its scarcity pinching at your lungs. “I’m sorry,” you add in a mumble, and he sees just how vehemently you mean it, pupils so wide they almost steal every bit of your beloved copper. 

A creak of a chair when he gets up, sighing harriedly. Has you stirring, utterly convinced that he’s about to fetch his cane out of its convenient spot against the desk — but he never reaches for it. Finds leverage in a sturdy hold of your knee instead, leans on it with a wistful smile and settles right into the notch of sheets next you. Not quite where he sat last night, but much closer — evidently so. And when he doesn’t move, letting your bare thigh freely rub against the thick fabric of his trousers, you know he accepts the truce, even with no verbal confirmation. Bless the mighty power of his languid body language. Careful, when he takes your hand in his, covering the tracery of palm lines in lovely strokes. So darling. So familiar. 

“You,” he emphasizes with sweet indignation, “are incredibly gentle. I don’t ever wish to hear that you’re incapable of handling kindness. You simply ought to learn not to bite at the hand that feeds you. And that requires playing more Caro-Kann. I’m willing to help with that. As long as you’re willing to learn.” 

His touch grows firmer, suddenly flowing into a squeeze, and you bate a breath, tongue a swirling little drill into the slopes of your palate. But Viktor goes on, keeping you close — practically face-to-face, and so very, very intimate. 

“And no more returning to stupid vices when you’re facing a nuisance,” he demands. Means it with every ounce of his being. The veins on his neck swell again, menacingly handsome. 

“Yes.” You gulp. The knot in your throat dissolves. “Of course.”

“I see it now. The reason why you think I’m encroaching on your autonomy, that is,” he muses, a bit sorrowful. “It must feel torturous — having to keep your guard up all the time. And I detest those who put you in such misery. However, I don’t like to be mistaken for such a man. I spoke up because I don’t tolerate disrespect. Not because I was trying to assert… ownership of you.” He trailed off, eyes filled with awkward sheen. “Although, I do admit that some possessiveness was involved.” 

Your chuckle turns into a sonorous laugh, but it’s hardly mocking. Insightful, more so.Like the one people emit after solving an equation with the most simple of formulas, like finding out that a confusing answer was sickeningly obvious all along. He allows you to touch him, stays still when you dare to entangle a hand in his hair, brushing through it with a little tug. Lets you know that he’s starving, too. For conversation, for skittishness, for what it augments into when the tension softens. 

Shivers run all the way up to tense shoulders when he wraps an arm around the arched curve of waist, pressing flush against his side to fetter into a desperate embrace. You giggle, dragging a fingertip over his flushed ear. Catch the shift in his breath, so abrupt and delectable.

“You know, I really did threaten to kick that prick in the crotch,” you murmur.

“Oh, I’m aware. Should I be concerned for my own, er… testicles?” 

“No. Well, not in a way that hurts. If you’ll have me.” 

A sheepish grin pulls at the corner of Viktor’s lip. “Now?” prods so huskily that it paints his motives unhallowed, and you hussle in his grasp, wondering if the implication is really there. Wondering if his hunger had suddenly merged with yours. 

And, well, that’s certainly a way to secure an amnesty. One you’re conveniently very eager for. 

So you decide to be bold. “Like I said.” You lean closer, tipping your head down. “If you’ll have me.” 

Viktor chortles. “Is that even a question?” 

Oh fuck.

The malt of his tongue sliding sloppily into your mouth — a kiss so lewd it has your world tumbling indistinct under fluttering eyelids, blurring completely when he steals your breath, ardent and tumultuous when your gasps turn into whines under that persistent, sweet pressure of his lips — starved enough to bruise, to bite a chunk out of you if only he tried hard enough. So wet it threatens to get into your throat, or drip down both of your chins in a glistening little trace — and you open up for him, always so incessant with that reciprocation: tongue, and teeth, and lips so pliant at his disposal. Doesn’t matter if you’re choking. You want to pass out under that gentle mouth, so warm, and inviting, and pressing into you in the most perfect of kisses. Even more strangling when his fingers dig into your hip, holding in place, eager enough to linger there for a few hours in speckled red, engraving his sheer desperation. You can hardly control your own, pulling at one messy chestnut strand. And it earns you a moan — gorgeously wheezy as he sucks at your bottom lip, teeth a sudden sunk into it when he senses the sharp affection and returns it right that instant. 

And you’re putty in those sinewy hands, arching backwards and falling senseless onto the sheets, tangling them with every new jerk of shaky legs. Spiraling into immaculate, tingly madness when Viktor exhales a chuckling breath somewhere above the collarbone, grabbing an overbearing hold of your chin. Coaxing your head to tip back and make some place for his teeth; thirty two little prickles plunging into your throat with pent-up vigor. Pulling at your skin in a not-so-gentle lovebite. More canines than anything, overwhelmingly so. 

But you let him, and meet it with a moan, needy, and high-pitched, and utterly unfeigned — an invitation to suckle more of you into his eager mouth. So he accepts it, freeing a soft breast out of the loose hold of a lacy shirt — and suddenly you’re grateful for that rushed choice of attire, so fitting for the way he squeezes, and twists, and selfishly laps up to tease a soft nipple to delicious stiffness. Watches the fleshy shade of it darken, growing hard under a playful lick. Smug, when he looks up, going in for another taste, pinch slow and torturous when he pulls at that tender nub, prideful for the way you keen, twitching with a fistful of his hair between lithe fingers. And so indecisive, too: does he want it nice and slow, or impatient, hasty and salacious? So many options to choose from. 

He’s leaning towards the latter, however. Lurches the shirt off your chest, tucking it to hastily ruffle around your waist — thank god for the lax straps, so helpfully hanging off both shoulders. Always teasing the lack of a bra. 

Warm palm lingers over the dip of your solar plexus, so gentle between the spread of breasts. And when it creeps higher, lingering over your chin, you force him to be even bolder. Stealing a sharp, dazed exhale when you capture his wrist, leveling those talented digits with your open mouth. Cheeky as you guide them inside, tongue a hot, wet fondle between ring and middle finger. And he shudders, enthralled by the sight, swallowing a whimper as you taunt him. Dragging out that debauched pop when you wrap your lips around them and suck hard, looking up with needy, impudent eyes. 

Such a filthy thing. Even dirtier now that you’re done with your little performance, head drooping to the side, adding to the complacent smirk. Viktor heaves out a laugh. 

“You’ll be the death of me,” whispers sweetly. Presses a peck to your shoulder, smiling when you trace the sharp line of his jaw. Tilts a hollow cheek into your touch, stilling above you. Steams pure admiration, pulling you closer. And you let him have that, so sickeningly starved for his love, grateful for the kiss he plants on the corner of your mouth, shivering when his caring hand — still a little spit-slick at the fingertips — brushes somewhere dangerously low, tickling at the pelvic bone. 

“Wouldn’t that be a good way to go?” you muse. The ever indefatigable tease, gorgeous, as you wrap both arms around his neck, noses pressing together for a split second. 

“I can think of a better one.” He shrugs. And when you humm, asking to elaborate, he simply clings to your thigh, thumb a fleeting brush over the damp edge of your underwear. “Crush me,” he pleads, “while I taste you.” 

“That’s hardly fair. I want to taste you too.” 

And he falters, coyly chewing on a thin lip.

“I think there’s a remedy for that.” 

Always a sight when he rises to undress, fumbling with the impressive amount of buttons. Makes it feel like a striptease, of sorts — an unintentional, lazy show. But this time he’s a little hasty. Almost tears that shirt apart, cocky when it gets to you, thin and immaculate — the pretty tautness of what little muscle he possesses, a shadowy slope of his navel and the curly black fluff running down right into his trousers. Besieging what you know must be really hard to keep in there when you look at him like this — so achingly desperate. Nimble, when you kindly help him with a belt, grinning vixen-like when the buckle budges. Normally, you’d palm him through all those layers, perhaps adhering to some languid torment. But today you’re undressing him rather crudely, eager to pull every cover down long legs and grab a hold of that lovely cock, fingers curling at the base to lay it flat against your restless tongue. 

But he stops you. Grabs a gentle squeeze of your hair somewhere at the nape, coaxing to meet the lustful scold of both glowing eyes. The slight twitch of a lopsided smile, weakly melting into an open-mouthed gasp. 

“Not yet,” begs of you so softly you can’t help but comply. With a reluctant whine, no less. And Viktor dismisses it, crawling back in between parted legs, fingers the sweetest of hooks into your underwear, then an eager drag of it all the way down and off the ankles. Dazed, when he notices a slick little stripe precisely on the pliant inner thigh. Cheeky, when he nudges legs apart again, and nuzzles into the delicate wetness, tongue darting out to lick the trace away — a tad sour, but he adores it, wants to bury his face in that divine flavor, to drench his fingers full of it. 

“Tease,” you accuse. His chin rests in that sweet spot between your thumb and index when he leans in for a kiss, grinning almost ear to ear. Can’t taste yourself on his tongue yet, but that’s a question of lust and a few more minutes of fervent devouring. It’s manageable. Exciting. 

“Bold of you to assume I can last through all your tortures,” Viktor murmurs, a little strangled. Falls supinely on his back, staring lazily from under dark lashes. “Although, I’m flattered. You give my stamina much more credit than it deserves.” 

“Oh please,” you scoff, turning around. Gasping, when long fingers curl into your waist, each thumb a press into your back dimples. And he pulls you onto him, nudges to throw a quivering leg over his neck and drift higher – until your knees press into the matress, and you’re hovering above him in a clumsy squat. And he’s gorgeous beneath you — hair sprawled out on the pillow into a myriad chestnut strays, eyes instantly meeting yours when you throw him a lustful look over your shoulder. 

“Sit.” His breath is syrupy against you, making the slick of folds feel somewhat cold when he exhales into that darling flesh. 

“On your face?” You want to be sure, to coax the obvious answer out of him. It’s a delicious offer, and you wonder if it still stands — as if Viktor’s hands digging into your sides with such firmness is not enough of a confirmation. 

“Precisely,” he rasps. Strokes each haunch in admiration, slowly making his tender way to your ass, spread slow and gentle, yet so achingly lewd it has your face blushing a pretty coral. Twitching, when he smooths a palm over one soft curve and fights the urge to leave a pink trace of a loving slap. And he smiles when you leak at the touch, tongue peeking out to deliver a shuddering lick, to circle the lovely orifice loose, sucking gently on your swollen clit. And you arch backwards again, mouth agape and stuffed full of your own fingers — to muffle that loud whine of a plea, preventing a noise complaint. And Viktor stirs your heat awake again, kisses coyly at the entrance before his index effortlessly slips inside — pumping, and curling, and making a nice, wet sound. “You’re so beautiful,” he praises. “Please, don’t crouch. Sit. I beg of you. You don’t know what it does to me.” 

And he’s right. You don’t know, yet his cock teased full of blood gives you a decent idea on that. So you melt, sighing when your clit lands exactly where you prefer it: on Viktor’s precious tongue, always so eager to please, to whisper filthy words or confession-like Czech nothings. And it’s a pleasant fusion: you know his eyes snap wide open when you reach to push him into your mouth, licking off the musky bead at the reddened tip and humming at the familiar, salty taste. He follows suit, meeting every bob of your head with the loveliest of little wet thrusts — tongue and fingers working together to earn yet another clench, while you tense up, gagging when he tickles the back of your throat. And you’re struggling to take him full, yet yearn for it with such genuine madness: so determined to please and be pleased, merciless with each persistent grind on the seediness of his tongue, grateful for the white-knuckled grip sturdily keeping one hip in place. And it consumes you, that earnest  chase of dizzying undoing, the need to memorize the patterns of the throbbing veins on his cock, each slippery, muffled gulp as you swallow around him, keen on having him paint your throat in warm, slightly bitter spurts. 

But you could also have him find that release inside you. How precious that must be — the tempting stretch of him, gorgeously raunchy, the sounds of skin slamming against Viktor’s narrow hips so utterly debauched. How good he’d feel, pulling you apart, coated in sweat, and slick and your greedy kisses. How breathy you’d plead him to fuck you stupid, moaning things so obscene your ears might still burn hours later. Yes, you’d rather finish him off like this. And you almost feel sorry for that impulse, yanking your mouth off his cock. Deft, when you slip from his grasp, turning to find him flushed and almost drunk on sensations. Oh, he was so, so close. How cruel of you to dispose him of that bliss. 

But you’re about to offer him so much more. So darling when you roll onto your back, open legs a lewd, tantalizing invitation. Beckoning to slide back in — deeper, heavier, closer. And he whimpers at the loss of you, hands immediately aching to gnaw at whatever they can reach. 

“Didn’t want you to cum yet,” you murmur. “Not until you’re inside me.”

That breaks him. Urges to accept the endeavor, rolling swiftly atop your sprawled out form and into the tender twine of limbs. “Milackú,” he keens through a shaky sigh. Pointy lips tremble against your neck. “Oh, milackú. What am I supposed to do with you?” 

“I can think of a certain verb. Four letters. Short and sweet.”  

And Viktor’s eyes lance your very heart when he whispers “I can think of two.” 

“Mmm, I’m not sure I want you to ruin me. ‘Fuck’ will have to suffice.”

“Not the word I was referring to.”

He’s gentle when he pushes in, hooking one thigh over his hip, thrust slow and deliciously torturous — more so to savor, to feel every crevice of yours wrap around him tightly. 

“Viktor,” you plead, wheezy and breathless, but he cradles your face and tips it towards him, aching to have you crumbling under his foggy gaze, drawling a high-pitched whine as he slides in hilt-deep, leaning in to lick a slippery kiss to the side of your neck.

“I want to love you,” he pants. “Four letters. Short and sweet.”

It courses through you, that tender revelation. And he means it, stroking a thumb over your bottom lip, gently nudging your mouth open for another heartful collision. Pours his whole being into that tangle of tongues, glides two shaky fingers over the swell of your clit and presses, stealing moans, twitches and incoherent mumbles.

You want to let him love you, to emit something that isn’t a muffled cry of his name, needier with every motion. And it’s so inherently filthy. The arc of your back over the damp sheets, the debauched stumble of your words as you whisper that confession back, nails a deathgrip into his shoulder when he thrusts again, gently working you through a release. Always so keen on making you cum first, on hearing more of those lewd squelches. And when the stretch stings you for the umpteenth sweet time, it takes him only a few more flickers over the sloppy mess of your clit to coax the final plea out of your sore throat, uttering a praise so dirty it has your toes curling tight enough to spread the tension all the way up to calves. Makes you feel the delicious pain of an orgasm spasm in all its candid beauty — perfect, loud, and hard, swathing around his cock in the loveliest of squeezes. And Viktor claims it like his greatest achievement, moaning into your ear as he finally allows himself to follow suit, lean body a tired collapse on your chest when it waves through him, sticky and so, so warm. Must be the result of a week’s long obstinacy or the plain desperation he nourishes when it comes to you, but you know you just have to make him cum like this again — unarterlably inside you, with every twitch of him so clearly palpable against slippery walls. 

And you’re full of him, overflowing, pulsating and suffocating, the ripples on the ceiling indistinct when you rest your slightly teary eyes. Viktor slides out, stealing a glance at a white little trail running down your thigh in a way so salacious he almost bites his tongue. Breathes so heavily you can feel every shift of his lungs under a flushed cheek. And you notice just how he holds you, basking in the weary afterglow, his chest a heaving pillow for you to nuzzle into. There they come — the loving trades of glossy glances, the smiles when you notice a bold scratch on his scrawny shoulder: he’s going to wear you for days, grinning whenever he passes a mirror naked.

Naked. It strikes you, the little thing you still have to do. It’s right there, in the pocket of your leather coat, probably a little crumpled. But you rush to fetch it nonetheless, ignoring Viktor’s confused humm of a protest. Laughing when he tries to stop you from making your way to the peg, so nimble even with your wobbly, fucked out walk. 

“You wanted to have it.” You grin, handing him the picture. So excited for the gasp when he reaches for it, weary eyes still adorably puzzled as you slip back in bed and under his gentle arm. Giggling when he unfolds the thing and utters an insightful ‘oh’.

He remembers now. Holds it with a knowing smile, amber eyes gliding over each divine line of you, eyeing first your version from the windowsill, then looking back at the real thing with even more striking appreciation. Like he couldn’t believe that a gorgeous creature from the photo is actually sprawled out in his bed; that he’d touched her, pleasured her, been inside her. 

“Thank you. It’s breathtaking.” His forehead presses against yours, and you flick a few wet hairs off its salty, sticky skin. You both need a shower, terribly so. 

“Do you really want to carry it in your wallet?”

“Oh, I intend to. If you approve of it, of course.” 

You chuckle, rolling your eyes at him in a theatrically mocking way. “Mmm, I don’t know about that. Normally, I wouldn’t allow it, but I suppose I could make an exception for the man I love.” 

His laugh wraps around you, warm and dear, muffling against your mouth when you lean to kiss him again — to ensure he doesn’t doubt you, to show him that you’re certain. Sighing when mouths part, but he’s quick to offer you his hand instead, and fingers carefully coil together, tender and still shaky. And Viktor bows his head, settling a soft peck against your knuckles. 

“Go take a shower. I’ll get the board. We’re playing a lot of Caro-Kann today.” 

—

i want to thank every single one of you. this fic has been A JOURNEY. it gave me a better vocabulary (because writing viktor requires research, especially when english is not your first language), a chess addiction and a stronger nicotine one (you don’t want to know how many cigarettes i’ve smoked during those long writing sessions, and neither do i — i’ve stopped counting for a reason). i don’t know if i’m pleased with how this fic turned out. it’s my first multichapter, so of course it’s not exactly perfect, but it was a fine ride nonetheless and i’m glad so many of you loved it. so excited for season 2!!!! so excited to write more for my favorite boy!!! but as of now, i’m taking a small break from writing.

oh, and i wanted to do something special once i’m done with this au. so here’s a spotify playlist dedicated to this fic: the c(o)unterpart

tags: @zaunitearchives @blissfulip @thehistoriangirl @queen-of-elves @vyshnevska

[firstfullmoon]

In 1981, Israeli Mossad agents assassinated Palestinian Liberation Organization member, writer, and intellectual Majed Abu Sharar in his hotel room in Rome. Abu Sharar was a close friend of the Palestinian poet and writer Mahmoud Darwish. In 1984, in his collection A Siege for the Eulogies of the Sea (Hissar li-Mada’h el-Bahr), Darwish included the final version of his long elegy to his friend, “The Final Meeting in Rome.” This poem in particular is largely untranslatable in English. The untranslatability is not so much due to the technical demands of the surreal lyric’s transformation of song into an act of liberation. Instead, the untranslatability relates primarily to the question of audience. There remains little room in English to receive openly, unequivocally, the freedom song of Palestinians in its myriad forms.

But I can simplify all this jargon in a single word, a name: Majed. Majed’s name permeates the text of “The Final Meeting in Rome.” In a moment of genius, in the penultimate section of the text, Darwish explodes language with his friend’s name through an unexpected refrain—as if Darwish had been writing the previous pages for the sole purpose of arriving at this stanza: “Good morning, Majed, / good morning, / get up to recite Surat al-‘Aaed.”

In the Quran, there is no chapter, or Surah, titled al-‘Aaed—a word that means the returnee. Some may argue that one solution for translating the stanza would reside in changing Majed’s name to Ali, for example, so that the impact of the rhyme is maintained: Ali/the Surah of the returnee. But that is self-deluding. English, much as it likes to argue otherwise, still struggles to accept at least two major points about this linguistic construct in Arabic. The first is the beautiful, divine presence of the Quran to elegize a Palestinian martyr (irrespective of their religious affiliation, if any). The second is the Palestinian right of return, dead and alive.

Darwish stuns his audience by blurring the boundaries of blasphemy. He is not echoing a specific Quranic text. He elevates the Palestinian question to touch the moral arc that bends toward justice in the universe. He delivers a mystical experience no one objects to in Arabic. He invents a Surah in the Quran and attributes its title to his “friend, brother, and last love.” The entire Palestinian body in one named Majed. The entire human history of return in a Surah.

Among the poem’s memorable lines, there is this couplet: “As if I could protect my heart / from hope. My heart is ill.” This ailing heart arrives near the end of the poem and disseminates into Palestinian flesh. What Darwish manages to describe, in topical yet visionary manner, is astounding, precisely because the poem does not claim to see the future. Yet here we are, more than forty years later, and every word of the closing salvo that I have translated is true.

I took liberties with this last, translatable section of “The Final Meeting in Rome.” Since one aspect of the original untranslatability is in the name—Majed—I clearly see that today, Gaza is the untranslatable name in the poem.

[hoodzgyal]

Jason Todd likes being slapped around. That’s it. That’s the post. Yeah, sure, he loves fucking you lovingly, hands almost bruising the dark brown of your waist, whispering sweet nothings into your ear, while pounding into you relentlessly. He loves the juxtaposition of it all, definitely.

But he fucking loves these moments. When you’re bitching about some random slut hitting on him, while raising the fat of your ass up and down his thick dick, moaning while cursing her for being a bitch and him for not directly dismissing her. His voice cracks while moaning out at the sensation of your pussy, and when he opens his mouth to defend himself, you slap him, across his beautiful jaw. You didn’t think anything of it in the moment, you were just so fucking pissed. But when he fucking groans, head falling back in pleasure, and his dick twitches inside your tight hole, you laugh, tauntingly at the spectacular sight of your big, bad boyfriend being silenced by the simple slap of your manicured hand.

‘Oh, Jason, you fucking whore,’ you smirk, rolling your hips sinfully on his crotch, moaning at the precise friction on your clit.

‘You like this, being slapped around, baby?’ You strike him again, his cheek becoming red at the harsh impact on his skin. This time he moans, high pitched and so slutty you’re suprised at his desperation. Jason, who is the most dominant man you know, the most brooding, possessive man

‘Baby, please.’ He pleads, but he doesn’t know what he’s really begging for, really. You look so fucking good, it’s driving him insane. Your tits are in his face, brown areoles hard from the chill air of your apartment and your makeup is smeared in a way with its so sexy it’s sinful, he’s begging for you to touch him more, because he thinks if you don’t touch him again he will go batshit insane.

‘What, babe?’ You pause your previous movements of impaling yourself on his dick, and he lets out a noise that literally can only be described as a wail, just at you halting your devilish motions on his cock. Smiling like a fucking vixen, hands wrapping around his neck seductively. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Fuck, please, let me cum. I’m sorry, I won’t do it again,’ He whimpers, frantically, hands trying to guide your ass to ride him again, desperately trying to recreate the sensational feeling of moving in and out of your sweet pussy.

You slap his hands away from you, scoffing.

‘Not happening, Todd. I’m gonna teach you a fucking lesson.’

(Is it bad he almost came from just hearing that?)

- 🧛🏽‍♀️

IM GENUINELY SO SPEECHLESS IWBSISNEJE YUMMIEE UM UM UM UM PAINSLUT JASON ?????

he’s begging and pleading and pouting with that sweet face of his, reddened by the force of your palm. he’s teary eyed and is literally so close to cumming it’s so unfair i need him i need him i need HIM FUCKK.

[my-rose-tinted-glasses]

[Spoilers for episode 5&6 of Happy of the End] Since last week I've been thinking about the way Happy of the End has been telling its story. More precisely how it's been telling Haoren's story. Because episode 4 was a hard one for me, and because of the remarks that @lurkingshan made here, I was wondering how the show would balance its themes, in a way that it wouldn't feel manipulative or exploitative and still have at its core the main love story. In its own way.

I think the biggest advantage in showing us the dark, be it necessary to go that hard with it or not, is the impact of the light when it appears. When Haoren goes soft and smiles, it hits particularly hard as well. And there's a relief that immediately hits me. Just like him, it's like I can breathe again, I can smile again. I think if I'd watch episode 5 right after episode 4 I would've felt elated. That whole scene on the boat was beautiful.

The tunnel scene was a stand out for me. That's where Haoren is at the moment. The liminal space he occupies. He's in between all the darkness behind him, and the light that he's trying to get too. But he's still not completely free of the past, so he can't walk himself into the light yet. So he lays there, in the between. And what gets him to move is Chihiro. Because he represents the light. Because he sees him as his last chance to find happiness.

When he escaped the first time, he said that he hadn't yet lived. And I think he's been waiting for something, something that makes him believe that he's alive. And Chihiro was the spark. I said at the beginning, once again agreeing with Shan, that I don't believe this was a love conquering all story. They will not heal each other and they aren't going to get fixed when it's all over. That isn't the point. I think for them, it's just about finding a place to rest, to be at peace and a place where they feel like they can start living again.

Episode 5 (Haoren) "I feel alive again" (Chihiro)"It's only when we're together that I feel like I can live"

[onmyyan]

Marcos Delmont NSFW HC'S

A/N: THIS TOOK AGES FUCK WRITERS BLOCK HAS HAD ME IN A CHOKEHOLD AHHHHH HE’S HERE SORRY IF ITS SHORT/BAD

TW'S: NSFW, WAX PLAY, BREEDING KINK

Nastiest mf

If there's one thing this cheeky bastard knows how to do is fuck.

He is very sexually adventurous, probably the most out of the boys.

Willing to try anything once, especially if you're into it.

Another switch, soft Dom/Power bottom depending on his mood.

Loves the way your eyes glaze over when he’s ramming into you.

Ready to get down and dirty anywhere, anytime.

Loooves public stuff, the thrill of anyone seeing what you two are up to makes him giddy.

Has a get freaky playlist and you've inadvertently trained him to get hard whenever he hears one of the songs outside of him intentionally playing it lmao.

Another one who likes filming you two, dozens of encrypted folders of you guys having nasty, sweaty, toe-curling sex.

Overstims you until you cry those pretty tears he loves so much, licks em’ off your face while he whines about how beautiful you are. 

Dick jumps when he sees you.

If he has you on your back, feet hooked over his shoulders, he the type to lick a stripe up your leg while he's rearranging your guts.

High sex good lord, weed makes him stupid horny, if he smokes you out y’all won’t leave the bed for hours.

Foreplay is insane with this mf, he likes to play guitar so those fingers never get tired if you catch my drift.

His absolute favorite place to be is 7.3 inches in your guts with a blunt hanging between his teeth.

Huge masochist, please hurt him, carve into his skin, leave crescent-shaped moons in his back, he wants everyone to know who he belongs to.

Loves wax play, the sting, and the way you hiss, god, he has creamed his jeans thinking about this before.

Addicted to how you feel around him, cockwarming will happen, just not for long, it feels too good not to buck into you.

You make him feel like a virgin in the best way.

Impact play, you are getting spanked, but don’t worry, he’ll kiss it better.

As kinky as he can be his favorite sex is when he can take his time, and worship every inch of your body.

Breeding kink, type to eat his cum out of you cuz he likes how you squirm.

There are some days he just needs to be held, interlock your hands, and tell him you love him, a surefire way to get him to bust so hard he shakes.

If you're away and he gets horny you'll get a ton of videos of him stroking his cock with your shirt pressed against his nose, "Look what you did princess, look how you got me."

Nut videos where he's whining your name in that breathless little tone, he likes to tell you precisely what set him off

“Thought about that cute little noise you make when I fill you up I got so fuckin’ hard it hurts.”

Bath sex that starts out tender but you pull his hair then boom he's fucking into you so hard there's barely any water left in the tub.

Obsessed with watching you cum, you make the prettiest faces when you go over the edge.

Anytime you get in a car with him there's a 50/50 chance you two are gonna fuck in it.

Praise kink and a degradation kink all wrapped in a kinky little bow.

 "C'mon princess I know you're not cock drunk already?"

"That’s my girl, my slut- fuck, you take me so well baby."

"I know you can beg better- show me how bad you need it."

[blakeswritingimagines]

Cough Syrup (Kinktober)

Word Count: 1.5k

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Aegon the conqueror was known for his fierce and powerful persona, he was a man who knew what he wanted and took it ruthlessly. One thing that many people did not know about Aegon was his secret love for impact play. He had a particular favorite person in mind, a beautiful and willing someone who he would frequently take into his chambers to indulge in his favorite pastime. The sound of your soft moans and whispers filled the room as he inflicted both pain and pleasure upon you. As you knelt before him, his fingers traced along the curve of your back, feeling the warmth of your skin beneath his touch. He could see the goosebumps rise on your flesh as he applied pressure, just enough to make you squirm but not enough to cause discomfort just yet. His hand moved lower, towards the hem of your dress, teasing at the edge before pulling it up slightly, exposing more of your thighs. You felt a shiver run down your spine as Aegon's fingers danced across your skin, leaving trails of heat in their wake. Your breath hitched as he pulled up your dress, exposing more of your body to his hungry gaze. You knew what was coming next, the delicious mix of pain and pleasure that only he could provide. Your heart raced with anticipation, eager to submit to his every whim and desire.

His grip tightened around your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space between you. He leaned down, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin behind your ear, whispering words of encouragement and praise. "Such a good pet," he murmured, his voice deep and commanding. "Do you want this, my sweet? Do you crave the sensation of my hand upon your flesh?" His words sent shivers through your body, making you ache for his touch. You nodded eagerly, unable to speak as your body betrayed you, betraying your need for him. "Yes…my King," you managed to stammer out, your voice barely above a whisper. You craved his dominance, his control over you, the pain mixed with pleasure that only he could give you. With a satisfied grunt, he began to raise his hand, palm facing downwards. The air seemed to crackle with anticipation as he brought it crashing down onto your exposed buttocks with a resounding smack. The force of the blow sent a jolt through your body, making you gasp and bite your lip to stifle a cry. He repeated the motion, each strike landing with precision and power, leaving bright red marks in its wake. Your body jerked under the onslaught of his blows, each one sending waves of pleasure and pain coursing through your veins. Your mouth opened in a silent scream, tears welling up in your eyes as you bit down on your bottom lip to keep from crying out. You loved every second of it, the mixture of pain and pleasure that only Aegon could provide.

He watched intently as his handprint blossomed on your skin, the sight fueling his arousal. He leaned down once again, capturing your lips in a searing kiss, his tongue exploring the depths of your mouth while his hand continued its relentless assault now just on your thighs. He savored the taste of your submission, the sweetness of your surrender. Your lips parted willingly beneath his, welcoming his invading tongue. The kiss was passionate, and fiery, reflecting the intensity of your emotions. Every strike of his hand on your thighs sent sparks of pleasure shooting straight to your core, making you wetter than you'd ever been before. You clung to him, your nails digging into his shoulders as if trying to anchor yourself amidst the storm of sensations. His hand slid further upwards, tracing the edges of your underwear before giving them a firm tug. The fabric fell away, leaving your pussy exposed to his hungry gaze. He groaned at the sight, his cock straining against his pants. He leaned down, nipping at your neck before trailing kisses lower, towards the hollow of your throat and the swell of your breasts. "Perhaps I should hit lower…" Your breath caught in your throat as his hand moved higher, your most intimate area laid bare before him. You trembled with anticipation, your body aching for his touch. When his teeth grazed your neck, you let out a soft moan, tilting your head to give him better access. His kisses trailed lower, setting your skin ablaze with desire. At his words, you felt a thrill of excitement mixed with fear. The thought of his hand striking your most sensitive areas made you throb with need. "Please…" you whispered, unsure whether you were begging for mercy or for more.

He chuckled darkly, pleased by your reaction. His fingers danced across your slick folds, gathering some of the moisture before bringing them to his lips for a taste. "Mmm, so eager for me," he purred, his voice dripping with lust. Without warning, he delivered a sharp slap to your clit, the suddenness of it making you yelp. "This is what you get for being such a naughty little slut." He repeated the motion, alternating between gentle caresses and harder strikes, each one pushing you closer to the brink of ecstasy. The double-edged pleasure of his words and actions drove you wild, your body arching into his touch despite the sting of his slaps. Each strike sent waves of pleasure radiating from your clit, pooling in your belly and spreading downward. Your inner walls clenched and unclenched, desperate for something, anything to fill them. "Oh gods!" you cried out, your body shaking with the intensity of your orgasm. He watched with satisfaction as your climax washed over you, your body trembling in his grasp. As you came down from your high, he scooped you up effortlessly, carrying you over to the bed where he laid you down gently. His own clothes were discarded quickly, revealing his throbbing member, ready and waiting for you. "Now, my dear," he said, positioning himself at your entrance, "Let's see how much more you can take."

Your body was still quivering from the aftershocks of your orgasm, but you welcomed Aegon's presence, his hardness pressing against your wetness. You reached up to wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down for another searing kiss. As he thrust inside you, filling you completely, you moaned into his mouth, the pleasure overwhelming your senses. He began to move, his hips snapping back and forth with a rhythm as old as time itself. Each thrust drove deeper, hitting spots within you that had never been touched before. His hands gripped your hips tightly, guiding your movements to meet his own. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, along with your cries of pleasure. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, pulling him closer, urging him to go deeper. The sensation of being filled so completely was unlike anything you'd ever experienced. Every thrust sent shocks of pleasure through your body, building a fire within you that threatened to consume you whole. "Harder," you pleaded, your voice a mix of desperation and delight. He grinned wickedly at your plea, his pace increasing, becoming almost punishing. One hand released its grip on your hip, moving instead to deliver a series of sharp slaps to your breast, each one causing you to cry out in a mix of pain and pleasure. "Such a good little slut," he growled, his thrusts growing erratic as he neared his own release. "Taking everything I give you like a champ." His free hand moved between your bodies, finding your clit and rubbing it in tight circles, determined to push you over the edge once more. "Come for me," he commanded, his voice rough with desire. "Scream my name so everyone knows who you belong to."

The combination of his relentless pounding and the pressure on your clit was too much. Your body tensed, your climax crashing over you like a tidal wave. You screamed his name, loud and clear, the sound echoing off the walls of the chamber. Your inner walls clenched around him, milking him for all he was worth, urging him toward his own release. The feeling of your tight walls squeezing him brought Aegon to the brink. With a few more hard thrusts, he spilled his seed deep inside you, his roar of release mingling with your cries. He collapsed onto you, both of you panting heavily, the sweat from your exertions mixing on your skin. After a moment, he rolled off, pulling you close against his chest. "Well done," he murmured, planting a tender kiss on your forehead and a swift hit to your ass. "But don't think this means you've earned a break." Your body hummed with satisfaction, every nerve ending tingling from the intense session. Despite the post-orgasmic bliss, Aegon's words sent a shiver down your spine. You knew he wasn't finished with you yet, and the prospect both terrified and thrilled you. "Yes, Your Grace," you replied, your voice husky from screaming his name. You nestled into his embrace, savoring the brief respite before the next round began.

[eatmangoesnekkid]

The Hidden Eros in Oral Care

Heart health is directly related to the quality of one’s oral hygiene.

Oral care and professional dental hygiene such as deep cleanings (especially as you get older) and brushing your tongue and the roof of your mouth daily favorably impact your heart health and the spiritual energetic emanation of your heart energy and body scent. That, coupled with pelvic circulation, the divine capacity to shake any fibroids and other toxic debris out of your own body, is also important to your quality of scent. Now your energy can flow better.

Increasing the health of our heart is important because it pumps and pulses our blood to other organs and provides our body with cleaner oxygen. Our heart is important for many less-than-obvious reasons as well. It is the only organ that supports us in radiating more peace, love and joy out into the world. So if you care about your heart, you must also care about your teeth and gum tissue, something I wish I would have learned when I was younger. But quality teeth and gum care are not about having perfect teeth as marketed in Western society, but about healthy teeth and gum tissues and thus healthy circulation of our heart energy.

Well-sourced meat (especially for more athletic people who *enjoy* meat) is okay as long as they regulate and stay aligned with healthy digestion which of course impacts quality of scent. If f you eat meat, you must be more meticulous with self-care which needs to stated and taught more I find.

I am a Scent Priestess among many other roles. Healthy scent/pheromones are part of my core values.

I believe as women, as female-bodies people, scent has to become one of our strongest senses and personal allies because of its ability to support us in drawing precise conclusions or making clear decisions through scent-tracking. How someone or something smells provides us with deeper intelligence and wisdom about a person or an environment, who and what is good for us and working in our favor.

Also, the quality of one’s health and the quality of one’s scent, are all inextricably linked to their quality of sex. If you love openhearted high-quality sex, if you love creativity and creative energy, creating new body and life narratives, meeting your goals and dreams, you must also adore self-care and spending time tending to your body, not putting yourself last. You must also embark on a journey of finding pleasure in opening up your lymphatic pathways and sweating regularly as well as touching and massaging aloe/oil/body butters into your whole body.

The ability to experience enthusiasm, ecstasy, natural bliss, instrinsic beauty, prophecy, and the like occur with more ease when you feel good, and smell good because your energy is unlocked and flowing. The flow of energy also keeps your signal for deliberate creation strong and available.

The quality of your flow of energy is the only thing that truly creates your reality.

The systems of oppression and repression we live in that de-magnetize and de-sacralize the feminine inhibit us from discovering real pleasure and erotic energy in most things we do, like in our oral care. Opening up your mouth wide and caring for your teeth and gum tissue, doing hip circles as you slow-brush your tongue, knowing how this care also contributes greatly to your confidence and sexual wellbeing, may start to feel delicious and even a bit erotic overtime to you with more tending, conscious opening like undressing slowly while soft gazing at your lover, and getting your mouth healthier, happier, or more sensitive to pleasure. If we want to cultivate the big chi needed to create the world we desire to see, we have to be willing to show up more creatively and erotically in nearly everything we do.

We have to become women again, Gods, dripping with big desire, even while brushing and flossing our teeth sometimes. We must become women, Goddesses who wear little to no chemicals, make high-quality oil tinctures by hand and beating heart, smelling like love, tasting like love, emanating more love and beauty into the electromagnetic field. This is how we create projects, art, or other dreams that have a heartbeat, where we don’t have to beg consumers to buy or purchase, but the work is so valuable and rooted that its own pulse will circulate it around in the world and into the global marketplace on our behalf.

Yes even inanimate objects, gestated properly, can carry a circulatory system. Mm. Amen.

—-

When you are ready to cross the threshold of waking up from the amnesia and egoic dream state you were groomed to live in, please know it is not all pleasure all the time which can lead to spiritual bypassing and hedonistic insatiable parasitic energy, like attracting a lover who doesn't really care about you and lowkey only really wants to fuck. None of this melody of love work is about getting stuck in pleasure because some of the transformative emotions are not pleasurable to experience.

The Feminine

The light is expanding which means that we too have to expand in order to hold more light. This is what awakening looks like. But a true awakening to light and wisdom in this dimension actually is a great descent into the human body--moving us out of head and down into our pussy, sex/creative energy center, and psyche on Earth which will bring up and out anything that is not true like vomiting in a ceremony, including the ugly, the uncomfortable, and the hard, which may likely bring heartbreak, pain, loss loneliness, etc. and reveal other blind spots and shadows one has been numbing or hiding from. But it will be also illuminate profound unmet layers of beauty because what's also true is that waking up is an ongoing internal work of resensitizing ourselves to experience real pleasure -from the subtlest, softest, benevolent, whispering touch of the wind to the firmest most passionate hand-full-of-pure-ass-grip under a moonlit sky and allow our range for pleasure to widen and expand on all levels like the universe, even in our oral health and oral...care. These are also ways the body naturally regenerates and create more meaningful experiences.

“Scent Priestess” is one of my favorite chapters in The Melody of Love series. 🫀🫀🫀

[k-nayee]

Damn, Forreal? JJK

wc: 3.6k

Traveler M.List

ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ

The day was perfect.

Sun shined bright, casting a beautiful glow over the buildings as a carnival took place in the rural town.

And as event was in full swing, streets filled with laughter and joyous sounds of celebration down below; a high-stakes game of cat and mouse played out on the rooftops above.

The trio first-years of Tokyo Metropolitan Curse Technical College (more commonly known as Tokyo Jujutsu High) moved with precision as they attempted to retrieve a finger of Sukuna that's been recently located.

What made the task easy also made it difficult, especially when the finger's presence led to the unwanted attention of nearby curses due to its dark power.

It's a battle of fierce clash, each side fighting with such ferocity it made the very air around crackle with energy.

"Itadori!"

The vessel for the King of Curses was already a step ahead, focus zeroed in on a particular curse holding their given target tightly in its grasp.

With a burst of speed, he closes the distance and lands a solid punch just as it was about to swallow the finger.

The direct hit sends the creature stumbling. Its grip loosening enough to allow Itadori to leap up and grab ahold of the ancient relic.

"I got it!!!" he yells triumphantly, holding up the cursed object with a grin.

But victory was short-lived.

Recovering quicker than anticipated, the curse charges and ram into the teen's chest.

The impact sends him reeling, doubling over with hacking coughs as the precious finger slipped from his grasp and went flying through the air. 

Nobara cackles at the sight before exercising the offending curse with practiced ease. "You had one job and blew it! Way to go."

Megumi, ever the stoic and aloof teammate, cast a worried glance in Itadori's direction. "Are you okay?!"

His call for concern is received with a thumbs-up and the pinkette's bright (albeit slightly embarrassed) smile.

"Y-yeah, I'm good!" light brown eyes light up upon spotting the dropped finger rolling away...

"Ah! There it is!"

...right off the edge of the building and into the bustling streets below.

He felt it before he saw it.

Looking up, Itadori's met the deadpanned gazes of Megumi and Nobara causing him to release a sheepish cough "Hee Hee...my bad."

|

|

Amid the vibrancy of the carnival stood a corn-dog stand.

The owner?

A sweet old man, whose face, even when marked by the creases and wrinkles of time, still held a spirited smile of youth.

His withered hands worked mechanically: dipping and frying, serving and greeting. A cycle he never tire of, always feeling as if his first day on the job.

Despite the dimming of his vision over the years, his other senses had heightened enough that the joyous sounds of families and the sweet smell of treats in the air painted a picture his eyes no longer could give...

"Thank you, Ojiisan!"

The chirping, cheerful voice brings a warm smile to his face as he turns toward the young customer.

"You're welcome! Happy to please~" Prepared by memory and touch, he carefully offers the freshly made corndog into the giddy anticipated hands of the little girl.

Her mother, watching the entire exchange, pays him with a warm grin of her own. "Thank you once again! Will you be here later? She just love your corndogs!"

"Glad you like them," he responds, tipping his faded hat at her flattering words in gratitude. "But yes, I'll still be here in the park. Tend to rotate every hour or two for better coverage! Gotta make sure everyone gets a taste of these beauts!"

Just as he gives the aging but sturdy cart a playful pat, a soft chime interrupts the moment.

Feeling his pockets for a moment, the old man pulls out a pocket watch before flashing the vintage item to them.  "Looks like it's time to do just that..."

As they prepared to part ways, the little girl suddenly stops when her attention is caught—not by the watch, but by something else within the cart.

"What's that?" she asks, pointing a corn-dog-greased finger towards the numerous pieces of papers that basically covered the entire cart.

"That?" he echo, following her line of inquiry.

His heart swell with emotions when his fingertips gently brush along crinkled edges that harbored a world of memories. 

"Ah, these are very special papers," he began, voice taking a softer, more nostalgic tone. "It is a gift from someone very dear to me—my granddaughter."

The mother paused, her interest in the conversation evident by the ensuing silence. She gives a smile and gentle nod, prompting him to continue.

"Quite the remarkable young lady; so strong and kind-hearted. Not around much these days though. Off making the world a better place in her own way..." he shares, pride twinkling within his murky eyes. "Before she left, she gave me those protective talismans. Said it would keep me safe from harm."

Fueled by imagination, the little girl leans closer, eyes wide with wonder. "Like...magic?" she whisper conspiratorially, captivated by the notion.

"Just like magic," he confirms with a chuckle. "Might not understand all that sorcerer stuff, but I do know it's her way of looking after me. And with these old eyes not being what they used to be, this little charm makes me feel safe...like she's still with me watching over my stand even when far away."

Satisfied with the tale and now fully focused on the treat in her hand, the child takes a hearty bite of her corndog causing the two adults around to laugh.

With one final nod of farewell, the woman ushers her daughter back into the carnival's lively embrace, leaving the old man alone with his thoughts.

As he watched their blurry figures merge into the crowd, a bittersweet feeling washed over him. They reminded him of his own family—his late daughter and the granddaughter he cherished.

Shaking off the memories, he began packing up his cart, preparing for the move. Methodically securing the lids on the condiment jars, he—

thump

The old man pauses. The sound was soft, easily missed to the average person amidst the carnival's bustling setting.

But to his trained ear, it was clear as day.

Hands hovering over a jar of mustard, his head slightly tilts, listening for any follow-up noises that might explain the oddity.

Hearing nothing more, he lets curiosity win and investigate. He steps slowly around the cart, his aging eyes scanning the countertops.

In the dimming light it was hard to make out its details, but he managed to see a cylinder-like object lying on the edge of the cart.

"Hmm, what's this now?" he muttered under his breath, leaning over cautiously to get a closer look.

Though his eyes was not as sharp as they used to be, it...almost looked like a....hotdog?

Then again, it wasn’t uncommon for things to get a bit jumbled during the busy hours—'must've accidentally left it out.'

"Welp. Can't waste good food," he lightly hums, body moving instinctively to retrieved to still salvageable food; the waste not, want not mentality flaring in his mind.

With a gentle hand, he picks up the object. It felt slightly heavier than a typical hotdog, its texture more leathery than smooth.

He brushes the differences off; attributing it to being overexposed to heat. 

Skewering it onto a wooden stick without much thought, he places the hotdog back into the heater next to the others immediately disappearing from sight—and, unbeknownst to him, from the world of Jujutsu sorcerers.

As the door of the hotbox clanged shut, the talismans around it unknowingly casted a veil over the finger, shielding it from magical detection. 

Humming a tune from his youth, the old man pushed his cart to the next location with a smile; blissfully unaware of the chaos his simple action had caused.

════════════════*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═════════════════

"Look at this place!" Adora exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "Where should we go next?!"

You followed her gaze, taking in the vibrant lights, the colorful booths, and the enticing aromas wafting through the air.

Hours of getting on kiddie rides and walking around and you still haven't gotten enough of it all.

"Bubba! What do you think of the carnival?" you glance down at your brother, whom you affectionately call Bubba (and he mimics back to you), as he's strapped to your chest in a baby carrier.

The toddler looks around with wide, curious eyes, soaking in the lively scene.

"Carni fun!" He babbles, clapping his hands before reaching out to grab at the colorful lights and towering rides.

Adora face flushes as she coos at his reaction. "He's loving this! You made a great choice bringing him along."

As you weave through the crowd, Bubba cutely announces "Hung'y! Wanna eat!" His small fist tugging at your shirt with growing impatience.

Laughing at his sudden proclamation, you looked at Adora with a shrug. "Time for a food break, I guess?"

Adora nods, eyes scanning the rows of food stands.

"There’s a corndog stand just over there. Looks like they’ve got the good, old-fashioned kind," she says, pointing towards the stand with a grin.

You all make your way to the corndog stand, where the scent of fried batter and sweet mustard fills the air.

The old man behind the counter, still humming to himself, turns with a welcoming smile as you approach. "Hello there! What can I serve you today?"

"We'll have two corndogs," Adora says as she hand over some cash, Bubba excitedly echoing her with a cheerful "Two!"

With a nod the old man, movements slow but precise, prepares your order. He opens the hotbox, pulling out three prepared hotdogs on a skewer.

As he dips them into the cornmeal batter, you can't help but notice a subtle tension in the air—almost as if a wave of electricity washed over the carnival. 

You break out of your trance with a nudge from Adora, her smug faced expression coming to view. "Betcha you glad I got your ass up and came out today. Great break from everything...its giving best friend of the year."

Your eyes roll at her antics, instead focusing on Bubba's gibberish with a smile. "I guess you did do your one this time. But seriously though, thanks for dragging us out."

"Anytime! What are besties for?"

Corndogs fried to a golden crisp, the old man hands them over with a bright grin. "Here you youngin's go. Enjoy the carnival~"

You break a piece of bread from the corndog off, giving the toddler something small to digest while keeping the hotdog portion for yourself.

Seizing the moment for a bit of fun, Adora holds up her corndog with a mischievous smile.

"Let's see who can eat theirs the fastest! Loser has to ride the Nightmare Drop," she challenges, her eyes gleaming with excitement.

Bubba gleefully eats what's in his hand, slobbering and chewing messily at the bread.

You agree with a laugh, raising your own corndog. "You’re on."

With that, the both of you quickly bring the corndogs to your mouths and start eating as fast as possible. You’re halfway through, about to take another giant bite, when suddenly, a darkness paints the sky.

The crowd murmurs in confusion as people glance upwards, bewildered at how it could be dark in the middle of the day.

Just as you turn to Adora with questions in your eyes, the ground beneath you shakes violently.

An explosion rocks the carnival, sending shockwaves through the crowd. People start running, scattering in every direction as the festive atmosphere turns to one of fear and panic.

You instinctively clutch Bubba closer to your chest as Adora grips your arm. "What's going on?!" she yells over the cacophony of terrified screams.

"Stay close!" you shout back, pulling her towards what you hope will be a safer spot, away from the frenzied crowd.

People scream as terrifying creatures began to materialize from thin air, their hideous forms sending waves of panic through the carnival.

You and Adora are frozen in fear, wide eyes taking in the otherworldly sight as chaos swirled around.

It wasn't until Bubba’s frightened cries did you snapped out it and you started moving, dragging Adora with you once again.

A towering monster comes into view. Its grotesque form swatting away nearby people like flies when it suddenly began to lumber closer.

Realizing it was targeting your group, you quickly unstrap Bubba from your chest harness and usher the 2 year old to hide behind some nearby rubble.

"Stay right there, Bubba. Don't come out until I tell you!" you whisper, a pang of guilt piercing your chest as you leave him trembling but safe.

It’s just you and Adora now, with the cursed creature looming before you.

Despite being shaky and on the verge of tears, you couldn't help but mutter a small joke. "Damn… I didn't even get a chance to finish my corndog."

Adora turns her gaze to you, frustration and fear written on her face. "Are you shitting me-no you know what? Gone head do it now...might as well have your last fucking supper!"

Voices cut through the panic.

"Where is it, Itadori?!" "It's close… right here!" 

Megumi and Itadori appear on the scene, their faces tense as they survey the battlefield. Their eyes land on the curse's raised hand before flickering to you standing there with the half-eaten corndog in hand.

You lift the half-eaten corndog to the sky with a sigh as if giving a grim toast. Biting down, you accept your fate with a swallow.

Megumi’s eyes widen in horror just as the curse's hand swings down to crush you and Adora.

"WAIT NO!" he screams, "STO—"

An explosion of cursed energy fills the air, blowing the creature's arm off in a burst of smoke and twisted energy.

The curse bellows out in pain, retreating a few steps as it clutches the bleeding stump. Dust swirls around the scene, cloaking everyone in a gray haze.

As the smoke clears, Megumi and Itadori’s faces twist into expressions of shock and confusion.

There you stand, unscathed, as black markings crawl along your brown face. An unsettling gleam fills your eyes, their once striking silver shifting into a deadly blood red.

Your lips curl as a sultry and sadistic laugh erupts from your mouth, echoing through the suddenly still air. 

"AHAHAHA! Finally!" you exclaim, looking down at your hands with glee. "Not the form I'd originally want, but I'll take this over being imprisoned in that brat’s body any day."

Megumi stares, frozen in shock and disbelief. "Oh…"

Itadori watches in stunned silence as the mouth on his cheek, belonging to Sukuna, widens into a big malicious grin. "Shit."

Sukuna's mouth twists into a sinister smirk, the cruel joy unmistakable. "Looks like there was someone else who could survive my power after all."

"Now, all I need to do is kill and absorb that brat's body," you say, pointing at a shocked Itadori, "find the rest of my fingers, regain my full power, and take over this pathetic planet just as I was supposed to thousands of years ago!"

Adora stands frozen, disbelief etched across her face before anger breaks her out of it. "____ are you high? W-what the FUCK are you going on about?!"

Your red eyes snap to her, causing the girl to cower at the weight of your gaze.

Your lips spread into a wicked grin, sharp canines poking out. You raise your hand menacingly. "Perfect. I needed some blood to be spilled anyways… starting to feel like I’m getting too soft."

Just as you're about to swipe at her, Itadori leaps forward and kicks you away. He lands in front of Adora, fists clenched and jaw set.

"Come on, Megumi! We have to stop him before he goes on a rampage." He glances at you, his fist raised in determination. "We got this."

|

|

"Ugh… w-we… don’t got this…" Itadori groans as he struggles to his feet, his breath labored and bruises already forming.

Right beside him laid a bloodied Megumi, barely able to lift his head.

You stride over to them, grabbing both by the collars and hauling them up like grocery bags. They groan at the movement, their faces twisted in pain.

You look at them with a pout, mockingly inspecting them like produce in a store.

"Not bad," you say before your playful demeanor drops with a sneer, "but not good enough." 

Then, with a vicious kick, you send them flying across the dirt. The two boys land painfully, rolling to a stop as they clutch their sides and gasp for breath.

It was then at that moment Gojo and Nobara finally appear.

"So... what's the damage?" Gojo asks, immediately whipping out his phone and pointing it at the battered faces of Megumi and Itadori. He snaps a few quick photos, his smile unwavering.

"Man, you guys are really messed up....the second years would love to see this! Hey Nobara, get in on this!"

"Ain't gotta tell me twice!" Nobara exclaims, squeezing between the injured duo and holding up bunny signs behind their heads with a bright grin much to Megumi’s annoyance.

His eyebrows twitch with irritation as he tries to scowl, but his battered body protests. Had he not been too injured to move, he would swear his foot would be so far up Gojo's a—

"So... did you find it?" Gojo asks casually, seemingly unconcerned about the state of his students.

Then, Megumi does something he's never done before in all the years Gojo has been his guardian: he sheepishly avoids the snow-white haired male's gaze, his lips pursed in a silent refusal to speak.

Gojo was too stunned to speak.

It wasn't until the nervous um of Itadori did the teacher break out of his shock and finally face the pinkette.

"Yes, Itadori? Do you know where the finger is?"

The first-year nervously and points a finger at you. "She… she… ate it."

"...."

"...."

"...."

"For real?" Both Gojo and Nobara ask simultaneously, their faces deadpanned.

"For real," Itadori and Megumi answer in unison.

Nobara shudders at the thought. "Ew! What the HELL is up with you guys?! First this booger-eater and now her?! What? Does the mf taste like teriyaki jerky or something?!" She sticks her tongue out and gags.

"H-Hey! If you must know, I stopped in middle school!" Itadori snaps back defensively.

"Okay!" Gojo clasps his hands with a strained smile. "First off: eww Itadori. Now! Can we please get back to the problem at hand? Was she able to gain back control from Sukuna?"

Receiving a unified shake of heads, the Limitless user release a sigh.

"...guess he really found the perfect vessel. No strings or restrictions whatsoever," Gojo muses before stretching with a grin. "Welp! I guess it’s time to get a little serious."

Adjusting his blindfold, Gojo steps forward, grin growing wider in excitement. "Not really fond of killing such a pretty lady, but duty calls~"

"Wait, wait, wait... WHAT?! You're gonna kill my best friend? The hell you will!" Adora calls out, her voice cracking, but she still steps forward defiantly.

Gojo tilts his head in confusion. "I'm afraid your best friend is dead. If you haven't noticed, she's no longer in control of her body. So we have to kill her, unless you want Sukuna to kill you."

"Enough of this!" you bellow as the powerful aura around you radiates in a mixture of red and blue. Gojo raises an eyebrow curiously—Sukuna's aura should have been entirely red. "Time to rid myself of you like I should have the first time."

Just as the two of you charge forward, ready to collide, a piercing wail cuts through the air. "BUBBA! BUBBAAAAA!"

Your gaze snaps toward the cry, dodging Gojo's attack you freeze mid-step.

"Bubba? [Brother name]?" The tattoos on your face slowly begin to fade, confusion etching across your features.

A snarl emerges from Itadori's cheek, Sukuna's voice seething with disbelief. "What? NO! IMPOSSIBLE. Not only the brat, but you too?!"

You start looking around frantically, searching for the source of the cry. "[Brother's name]!"

"BUBBAAAA!" The cry rings out again, and your head snaps toward the direction only to see the same curse from earlier, this time holding your little brother as it prepares to swallow him.

Horror washes over your face, and you release a gut-wrenching scream, "[BROTHER NAME]!"

A powerful burst of blue aura explodes around you as you sprint across the ground, leaping up in time to pull your little brother into your arms just as he drops into the curse's mouth.

Your momentum carries both of you down into the gaping jaws, and the curse swallows you whole.

For a moment, silence falls over the scene, everyone trying to process what just happened:

The curse happily rubs its bloated belly, gleefully muttering a "yummy yummy" in satisfaction.

Adora lets out a scream of disbelief, slowly sinking down to the ground in shock.

Itadori, Nobara, and Megumi could only stare, their eyes wide while Gojo scratches the side of his head with a bemused expression. "Well shit...that just happened."

Moments after his words hang in the air, the curse stops moving. Its eyes widen in sudden panic as its body begins to swell uncontrollably.

Right before it bursts, it utters a confused, "Uh wh—"(uh oh).

The curse's body explodes, energy rippling through the area with strong winds. When the dust finally settles, steam rises up from the newly made crater in the ground.

And in the place where the exorcised curse once was stood you, with Bubba securely attached to your chest in his baby strap.

A swirling aura of red and blue surrounds you, one eye glowing crimson while the other shines [eye color].

You look down to see Bubba already gazing up at you, his chubby hands grabbing your face as he coos softly, "Bubba, Bubba."

"Once again... that just fucking happened."

[siremasterlawrence]

May The 4th Be With Him

It is the bizarre celebratory wild night of The Fourth of July at Luke’s Bar which is pulling the opposite vibes very low key with only a few paying customers there he was about to close early and go enjoy the nonsense that transpires on this night when his best friend Kyle walks in to the establishment. This our young man stood next to him unsure of all that is about to play out when Luke warm in his embrace welcomes them as they take a seat at the bar and prop on to two vacant bar stools as Luke is suddenly spreading his lips in to a smile he so overcome with a case of emotion.The two ignore him facing the windows as a firecracker explodes shooting in to the sky it immediately implodes upon impact the sky is lit with most beautiful and illuminating color schemes ever imagined before there eyes stunning both Luke and Kyle as there eyes are now glued to the display.The two shook it off a few minutes later in a bought of confusion before Luke hops up on his right leg yelling that they should play a game of pool and the two guys agree as they head to the table completely unaware of Gary’s plan he is about to hatch for a new life. Luke sets up the table placing race a ball one at a time in a heap leaving the triangle shaped curb over the balls keeping them in place before removing them and taking a shot the balls are hit head on rolling through the whole table and keep them throughly entertaining.The young man backs up sneaking off to the sides mysteriously and unbeknownst to them with a agenda he hops over the bar to the side digging through his pockets he found the item in question a oddly precise nuzzle for the beer tap swiftly securing it as he disappears.He suggests they all get some beer on him he shouts flipping the tap switch as he pouts for all three of them, he lands on the counter to which they happily accept slurping loudly in such ungodly and ungentlemanly manner causing a scenes as both men burp and fart unconscious filling the room up with a horrid smell as they faint. Gary laughs so hard watching the effects go take plan automatically on instinct so he is on fire. He switches the sign to close, makes sure the place looks neat, and awaits for our two friend to wake up eventually they both do two hours late he with intense headaches and drunk as hell fully under this young man wicked desires. He claps his hands extraordinarily loud as his sound booms bouncing throughout the house ricocheting left to right stirring an echo in its place. The two man experience a swift changes as the young man voice is booming through the walls of the bar they bellow deep in to his ears causing Luke and Kyle to drop to their kneesThe young man smirks standing in the main center bar he snaps his fingers as both of these men come to life taking the young guys in the air lifting him up in the air on to the bar itself. The stare mindlessly in utter obedience foolishly giving in to their new inner desires of submission, devotion and declaration of love.

“The fireworks…”

“So beautiful “

“Both of face me”

“Yes”

“Yes who?”

“Master Gary”

“Kneel to the floor “

“Drop for me”

“I am your new God”

“Worship me”

“With pleasure my love “

“Strip off your clothes “

“Yes…My love”

“Yes…My God”

“Standing naked for me”

“Stay in the light “

“Your shaft on display for me”

“Take me to your private bedroom “

“Oh God! Yes Master”

“Lead the way Luke”

“Fuck off bastard! “

“Or what fucker?”

“I’ll break your neck”

“Just try it “

“Asshole! I dare you “

“Bend over! I’ll do it”

“Make one move “

“I’ll light your ass up”

“Give Master more access “

“Sir Yes Sir”

“The two of you”

“Yes Sire”

“Zip it”

“Go upstairs”

“Don’t say a word”

“Open the door “

“Kneel before me”

“Close the door “

“I love you “

“We love you too”

“Sir Yes Sir “

“Will you serve me?”

“With my life and body “

“Take us”

“Wrap your hands on my waist “

“I can’t wait to worship you”

“Enter me”

“Me too”

“I need you “

“Want me too”

“Oh God Master! Please! Fuck! yyyyeeessss”

The end

[writingwithcc]

Writing Sample: fanfiction, Legend of Zelda, Breath of The Wild, Zelda and Link, Zelink, General, Blood and Injury, Near Death Experiences, War, End of the World, First Kiss

Drabble based on the beautiful art by Helimarr.  "In the battlefield, there is no place for hope. What lies there is only cold despair and a sin called victory, built on the pain of the defeated." — Emiya Kiritsugu

    Zelda did not know war. She knew of it, had read many leather-bound books on the subject, studied multiple strategies, glanced over painfully detailed illustrations. These things were not war, though. They barely scratched the surface. Books did not mention the stench of blood and sweat and death. Strategies did not say how to handle a clenched heart when loved ones were faced withswords and beams of concentrated power. Illustrations did not show the little stuffed toy left behind, never to be held by its child again.

    Vah Naboris was the first of the Divine Beasts to be infiltrated. It was clear that something was wrong the moment its power ceased, paused as though in stasis, little more than a tall statue of stone. There was nothing they could do.Link had his hands full defending against Bokolin's, Moblin's, Lizalfro's, Wizards— and he defeated them, one by one, while Zeldaprayedin the growing expanse of mud, knees on the ground in submission as she curled inward and whispered her fevered pleas.

    "Hylia, Goddess of Light, Protector of Hyrule, You Who Share My Blood—"

    A Lizalfro shrieked as Link's blade drove through its neck, his grunt rising above the sound.  

    "I ask for Your guidance, I ask for Your light, I ask for Your aid to release my power—"

   Link's grunt. A man's not too distant cry.

   "Grant me my power so I may serve Hyrule in Your name—"

   Crying. Grunting. Shrieking.

   "Give me power, I will serve You, give me power, I will fight for You, give me power—"

   Vah Ruta fell.

   "Hylia, Goddess of Light, Protector of Hyrule, You Who Share My Blood—"

   Vah Rudania fell.

   "I ask for Your aid, grant me power—"

   Link's grunt. A Boboklin's shriek. Groaning and yelling and orders and clanging of steel against steel against flesh.

   "Let me protect them—"

   Vah Medoh fell.

   "Hylia, please!"

   The Castle of Hyrule fell.

   Zelda felt the weight of grief consuming her chest like a parasite, eating hungrily at everything she had, ripping out her heart and gorging on its core. Her father was no longer visible from his tower, and yet their soldiers honored his last command, fighting and dying against the growing wave of strength that engulfed them. They were losing— no. They had lost.

   Link knew. In all the time she had known him, her knight never ran from a fight, yet at that moment, he grabbed her hand and yanked her from the ground. He led them away from the castle and into the forest, pausing only to shoot arrows at the enemies who attempted to follow, his movements quick and precise and deadly upon every impact. They kept running. There was a loud, shuddering burst of dark energy from the castle. They kept running. Their enemies fell far behind and lost their trail, growls, and snorts and shrills fading from earshot. They kept running.

   Everyone was gone. They had lost. Hylia, even then, had refused to answer her call. How despicable must Zelda have been for the Goddess to deny her power, even then?

   You are the heir to a throne of nothing: nothing but failure.

   She didn't know where Link planned on running to. Perhaps he didn't, either. His hand gripped hers so tightly that on some level, Zelda recognized that it hurt, but the pain didn't quite register. She grabbed his just as hard. Then tears began to choke her throat, and she couldn't breathe. Her legs became weak, and her hold on him slipped. The mud beneath her sandals slicked, and Zelda fell in the one moment that Link loosened his hold. He stopped and spun to look at her, eyes wide, searching for danger but finding nothing. Nothing but Zelda on her hands and knees, panting and gripping the earth beneath her hands as though she could strangle an answer out of it.

   "How?" She asked in a broken whisper. "How did this happen?"

   There was the sharp shrill of the Master Sword retreating to its sheath and Link knelt before her. Rain began to pelt against Zelda's back, cold and pitiless. She spoke the words that seemed impossible; the Divine Beasts, their best defense, were now Calamity Ganon's and the Champions were trapped within them. It was all due to Zelda's inability to be worthy of the power that was supposedly hers by birthright. Everything she had done up until this point had been for nothing. 

    She truly was a failure; the sacrifices of those she loved proven meaningless. Her subjects, her Champions—  strong, loving Urbosa (had her death been quick?) Gentle, brave Mipha (she must have been so scared.) Good-hearted, faithful Daruk (did he regret trusting her?) Confident, unyielding Revali (he had surely fought to the end.) Her father. All dead in vain, all dead because she had failed them.

   The barrier Zelda had wrapped so carefully around her heart was ruined, and as she cried out in a painful wail reserved only for the mourning and forlorn, her body slumped into Link's arms. It was the only place that seemed safe. Sobs shook her shoulders, and wordless grief tore at the skin in her throat, stripping it raw, but her cries only came harder in retaliation. She gripped Link’s shirt as he held her. It had taken so many hours to sew the blue tunic he wore. But oh, how proud she had been as they'd stood before her father, displaying her Champions for the world to acknowledge.

   She didn't want to be proud anymore. Hylia could give her every ounce of burden and shame, she had earned it, deserved it, and would shoulder the weight willingly if only things could return as they were. Yet that wasn't an option. There was nothing left to do but face their own eventual deaths, for they could only run so far, and Calamity Ganon would always run further.

    It wasn't fair. Zelda slipped her arm around Link's torso as she buried her face against his chest, calming her thoughts by focusing on the rapid drumming of his heart. She wondered if his heartbeat was always so fast after battle. Her tears began to taste bitter at the realization that she had dreamt in quiet dreams of being held in his arms so many times. It was the smallest indulgence she allowed herself, but their embrace was never meant to be in this way. The moment which she had hoped would be sweet and tender was now stained by blood and sweat and death and rain and her tears. Zelda wondered if it was punishment. Yet Hylia had never been known to be a jealous Goddess, and it had only been an innocent dream, nothing more. She had been good. She hadn't done anything, had kept true to her purpose and devotion, had turned away so many who flickered at her heart. She had been good.

    Goodness had yielded her nothing, though. Zelda's sobbing wore itself out, sputtering until her emotions dried, and Links hold on her never wavered. He didn't speak. She didn't expect him to (what was there to say?) His heart continued to pulse erratically against her cheek. A numb, logical voice in Zelda's mind said that they should get up and keep running. Ganon's creatures would find them eventually if they didn't continue to move, and it was their duty to survive for however long they could.

    She didn't want to. It seemed so futile to fight something that had already won. They were going to die anyway, her and Link, it was only a matter of when. Something about that thought was calming, though. At least soon it would be over. Everything. The pain, the whispers, the humiliation, the grief, the failure— what did it all matter if they were no longer around to experience it? Zelda wondered if they would still be reborn as the prophecy said. Ganon would suck the world dry of its life and leave it a crumbling ruin, so perhaps they wouldn't. Perhaps this was the true end of it all, the destruction of a cycle that was once thought to be eternal.

    The rain continued to fall, and where it had once been painful upon her skin, now it seemed like reverence. It was possible that this would be the last rain to ever fall upon the Earth, as though fate was intent on cleansing the blood which soaked its surface before a final farewell. Zelda took a breath. Then another. She wanted to see Link. If there was nothing else for the world to give, if it was preparing to empty itself of all who had ever known it, then she wanted to at least see Link once more.

    Yet when she pulled back, trails on her cheeks where tears had flowed through dirt, her green eyes couldn't rise to meet him. She had failed so many people. Failed him. The shame still felt so heavy on her neck, domineering and cruel. Even so— even so, her heart retained an ounce of selfishness, and Link stayed so very close. He always stayed close, no matter what came. There was a day when she had stomped her foot at his loyalty but was it any wonder that he won her over in the end?

    Could she truly be blamed for loving him the way that she did, when Link was the way that he was?

    Perhaps Hylia was a jealous Goddess, after all. Perhaps She hated how Link held a part of Zelda's heart that she had not tried to shut close, and perhaps that was her mistake. It didn't matter now. They would be gone soon enough, and Hylia could choose her fate then, could rebirth her into a world of desolation or dissolve her into true nothingness. For now, Link was with her. For now, he was close, and her lips weren't far from his, and when she tilted her chin up they were even closer, he was closer, and it wouldn't take much to indulge as Zelda had never truly indulged before. There was no reason not to. Beneath the scent of a battlefield, there was simply Link, and it reminded her of a wild wind. 

    They would die, anyway. They had lost, anyway. Why not, her mind begged, why not?

    Link was the source of temptation and resistance. It made sense now why Hylia preferred him over her, for Zelda was selfish, and the Chosen Hero was noble. She couldn't drag him down to her level. Whatever punishment awaited,he didn't deserve it. However delicious the heat from his mouth might taste, it was not hers to take. Zelda squeezed her shut eyes ever tighter as though she could will her vile heart away and lowered her chin. She felt Link's hand cup her face, comforting and warm and more than she deserved. In the space between their chests, she breathed the words, "I'm sorry."

    Then Link's other hand was upon her, calloused fingers splayed across her cheek, passionate and desperate as the kiss he pressed to her lips. He tasted better than Zelda's darkest thoughts had ever imagined. While his hands were rough, his lips were so unbelievably soft, and it seemed as though they melted against her like the honey he so loved to drizzle upon baked apples. It was wonderful.

    Zelda's sob broke the kiss, short and sharp as it tore open her mouth to cry, but before Link could pull away she tugged him closer. Her lips were on his and her hands slipped around his neck, up into his hair, fingers tangling themselves in everything that was him. He was covered in dirt and sweat and other's blood, and he was perfect. Hylia was right to be jealous.

    She moved her kiss to the corner of his mouth, his temple, his forehead.

    I love you.

    He kissed her cheek, her neck, her shoulder.

    I love you.

    Her hands gripped the sides of his face. His hands gripped the back of her head. Their lips met once more and refused to be parted, the heat necessary as air. If what they did was indeed desecration, then sacrilege was sweet and worth damnation. 

    I love you.

    At that moment, Zelda decided that Link would not die. She would, and that was fine, perhaps that was the way it was always meant to be— but he would live. When it came time, she would tell him to run (he wouldn't listen), she would tell him to leave her (he never would), and she would defend him (she didn't know how.) Hylia could have her failed reincarnation and do with her as She saw fit, but Link was no longer Her Chosen Hero. He was Zelda’s, and he was all she had. He was the only person she loved left to protect, and losing him was not an option. 

    She would have spent an eternity with him. But eternity was brought to a close by the familiar, almost musical beeping of a Guardian preparing to attack. Ever the knight, Link was quick to shove Zelda behind him and draw the Master Sword once more, plunging it into the Guardian’s glowing blue eye. He defeated it. More came. He stabbed the inner workings of their gears, slashed their mechanical legs, and reflected parts of their blasts with a well timed tilt of his blade. Over and over, the Guardian’s challenged him, drawing them out of the forest. Over and over, Link laid them slain amongst patches of flames left in his trail of destruction. 

    But Link, for all his bravery, was not immortal. His strength waned, his speed slowed, and little by little, even The Hero of Hyrule would fall. 

[skitch-lab]

An interesting Challenge: freestyle Blackwork Lady Faun 🌿

Blackwork embroidery, with its elegant and bold outlines, has a rich history dating back to Tudor England. Today, I'm taking you on the journey of creating a freestyle blackwork embroidery featuring a lovely Lady Faun I designed myself!

From Sketch to Stitch

My design process began in Procreate, a well-known app for illustrators and designers. On Procreate I sketched my Fantasy character and drew lineart but I also simulated my stitches to better plan out the ideal blackwork pattern and study light and shadow areas (watch the video below!)

Since I wasn't yet comfortable with counted thread techniques, I opted for freestyle blackwork. This technique gave me the freedom I needed, especially because I planned to use thread painting for the eyes (which required a cotton/linen fabric).

Scales & Shadows: Building Texture

To bring a touch of Fantasy to the design, I chose a simple fly stitch to create a pattern resembling dragon scales. To create shadow effects, I got creative! I used two methods simultaneously:

Varying thread thickness: thickening the lines from 4 strands for the darkest areas to 1 strand for the highlights.

Seed Stitch accents: adding texture and depth with tiny seed stitches in bright areas.

Embroidering, finally 😅

The actual stitching process involved several stages: the initial outer lineart (4 strands), followed by progressively finer inner lines,and finally, the definition of shaded areas with my alternated fly/seed stitch pattern. Ah! Of course I used black thread, n° 310 DMC cotton mouliné ✌🏻

Challenges & Triumphs

This project wasn't without its hurdles! Maintaining precision with freestyle blackwork, especially on a larger format, was a test. Constantly changing thread thickness also added a layer of complexity. However, the end result was a successful experiment with great visual impact! The fly/seed stitch pattern proved to be easy to execute with freestyle and offered a beautiful textural element. Absolutely love the ink/pen sketching effect (with a touch of colour 😛).

In the end, my freestyle blackwork with alternated fly/seed stitches is a fun and versatile technique for beginners and experienced stitchers alike 😉

What do you think about this piece?🖤

[29625]

Forensic artist! Slider x FBI investigator! Mav AU WIP I’ve been hatching for a while.

Inspired by the UID community and its talented volunteers and professionals who contribute to the beautiful, humanizing facial reconstruction of some of the decedents! The case isn’t particularly based on the real event but rather a creation of a mish-mash of many different cases as well as fictional details.

Paring: Slider x Maverick, with forensic sculptor! Ice and FBI investigator! Goose.

Rating: Teen and up for now. Might throw some sexy stuff later.

Warning: graphic description of violence, dead body & suicide (no major character death). Very inaccurate description of how law enforcement works in the US (I’ll fix it later! Sry! Please let me know if there are something you’re familiar with because that’d help a lot!)

In 1991, a case reopens in San Diego, California. The case where a White woman aged between 30-45 was found deceased in a wooded area with a gunshot wound in her head in 1978.

She was not facially recognizable with decomposition and animal activities, as well as the wound inflicted by the impact of close proximity gunshot. A medical examination concluded she had large amount of alcohol and some sleep medicine in her system at the time of her death, possibly making her disoriented, and the purse containing her personal belongings left at the scene had a empty bottle of pills whose label had been scratched off.

She cut all tags off from her clothes which consist of a polka dot summer dress, a pair of white heeled sandals (size 5), blue bra and a white underpants with laces, all found on the decedent’s body except for one of her sandals, possibly due to animal activities as observed in her post-mortem scars on her right leg. She was approximately 5’ to 5’3 inches tall and weighed about 140 lbs. She had fair complexion with chin-length red hair, naturally straight and styled curly, but the advanced state of her decomposition hindered the examiners to determine her eye color.

The location she was found is close to the region where prostitutes and hitchhikers frequent and she is theorized to be particularly familiar with the area, suggesting she had been working in sex trade in San Diego area.

Even though she carried no ID or tax stamps, receipts, or credit cards with her at the time of her death, a possible clue to her identity was found in her purse, which is a piece of paper (approx. 4 inches wide and 1.6 inches long) with the message following:

I love you so much Jannie/Jennie/Jamie (the exact words differ depending on the sources) .

I can’t be there anymore but I’ll always love you & wish you the best.

To people this may concern Im [sic] sorry for every-thing [sic]. xxxx

The message was scribbled with a blue-ink pen, but it lacked her signature and nobody with the name in the letter has come forward after the initial information was released in California region.

It is theorized that the person in the letter is either her friend, family (possibly a sibling or a husband) or her child, who she might have been estranged with at the time of her death.

No foul play is suspected in her case and her death has been concluded as a suicide by gunshot.

“….And we’re renewing her facial approximation, which hasn’t been updated since the initial discovery.” Pete scans the case file containing the composite—a basic photomontage. Her silent face is devoid of any emotions he can tell right away, frozen in time, something he’s so used to seeing. “Right. Well, we gotta contact Tom about this.”

Tom Kazansky from Los Angeles Police Department. He’s a forensic anthropologist who specializes in sculpture. A great contributor of his and Nick’s cases with an ice-cold precision, he’s also been a close friend of them—with his great dedication for his job and his deadbeat sense of humor.

“About that.” Nick interjects. “I don’t think we can, Pete. Or we should, for that matter.”

“Why not?” Pete asks, slightly frustrated but mostly surprised at the statement. “We’re lacking a good reconstruction and he’s the best candidate we’ve ever got.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Nick says with a small shrug. “But he’s on a family leave, remember?”

Oh.

Oh, right. Now he remembers.

“Good for him, yeah?” Nick smiles. “A kid is such a bundle of joy. I still think of the day Brad came home with my sweetest wife whenever I’m feeling low.”

“Shit, Nicky.” Pete groans as he rubs his face with his hand. Maybe two months without a break really does something to his memory. “I can’t believe I forgot that, man. I even sent some gifts for him back in October.”

“Workaholic.”

“Yo, shut up.”

He playfully smacks Nick’s head as they leave. The perk of having a witty partner is he never gets bored at work—with a side effect of never getting a break.

Finding another forensic artist was, to his surprise, a smooth process. Tom has assigned a substitute while he was away, taking care of his wife and his newborn baby girl.

Ron Kerner.

A forensic artist at LAPD, working in Tom’s lab. His portfolio shows a series of drawings of people. He seems to have worked on both the composites of criminals and victims, with him predominantly working on the identification of latter.

Flipping through the thick file, he reaches to the section titled ‘John & Jane Does’. And—damn, how lively and colorful those portraits are.

They are all smiling, some of their grins are wider than others with a more sly-looking expression. There are four comparisons between a then-unidentified person and their living photos, and Ron seems to have captured their unique facial features on point while…humanizing them, however tragic their last moments may have been.

Talented, indeed. Pretty empathetic, he might add. No wonder Tom has assigned his role to him.

“Bradshaw!”

A voice echoes in the hall as they finish talking to the receptionist. Nick turns around and waves back with a big grin on his face.

The man stands in front of them. He’s muscular, slightly shorter than Nick yet still way taller than Pete himself. Towering, but his relaxed stance makes him seem friendly, combined with the toothy grin on his angular face. His curly brown hair complements his tanned skin. Judging from the way he presents himself, Pete assumes he’s not a visitor here.

“Hey bud!” Nick says and shakes hands with the man. “Still dwelling in the lab, huh?”

“Oh you shut your pretty mouth, dickhead.” He chuckles almost affectionately.

“Pete, this is Ron. Ron Kerner from LAPD. Ron, this is Pete. Pete Mitchell.”

Ron Kerner.

The man looks at Pete and reaches out his hand, which he’s quick to shake.

“I really liked your portfolio.”

Pete mutters almost instinctively as he shakes his hand, realizing how awkward he sounds a moment later. Ron looks at him with slightly widened eyes, curiosity flickering in his beautiful hazel irises.

“Uh, I mean…I’m Pete Mitchell. Call me Pete.”

“Thanks.” Ron says with a smile with a tinge of shyness on the corners of his droopy eyes, although well-concealed by his bold voice. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Pete. Tommy always talks about you guys.”

“Yeah.” Pete answers as their hands part, leaving a pleasant warmth on his cold skin. “Pleasure to meet you, too, Mr. Kerner.”

“Hey, Ron’s just fine.” He says. “We’re about the same age, right? Don’t make me feel old.”

“You can call him Ronnie if you want, Pete.” Nick says. “Bet you’ll get along just fine. He’s just as immature as you.”

“What did you say, jackass?”

Their eyes shot at each other as their voices almost synchronize, much to Nick’s amusement.

“Damn it, Nick!”

“Shit, Bradshaw.” Ron mutters at Nick’s smirking face that Pete’s so familiar with at this point of his career. “Let me be cool and act like an adult in front of this guy, alright?”

“Ha! Jokes on you, Kerner. You’ve already said dickhead like you always do.” Nick teases. “C’mon, Pete. You think he’s mature? With his taste in jokes like that? Betcha get along well, darling. Already in synch.”

Ron pouts at Nick with a small pfft sound, a gesture he didn’t think a guy this big could pull off.

“Get along well, huh?” Pete chuckles, lightly patting Ron on the shoulder.

“Great start, I guess.” He grins. “Though I can’t wrap my head around how you tolerate this bastard.”

“Me neither, man.”

Ron barks out a laugh as Nick pokes Pete on the arm, grumbling at how the table has turned.

Ron Kerner.

Today was the first time they’ve met. He’d been faceless to Pete for almost a month, ever since they first called in the most basic business-like manner, talking about grown-up stuff, in contrast to the almost overwhelming amount of portraits he sent him.

“Hey, Nick?”

“What?”

“Can you see an artist in his own work?”

Nick blinks a little, his eyes briefly shot up from the road. They are on their way to go back to their office in his car, idly listening to the local radio as the town passes.

“Don’t look at me like that.” Pete stretches his arms and loops them around the headrest. “It’s weird, I know.”

“I thought you lost your mind and decided to be a philosopher instead.” Nick says. “But I guess you can.”

“How?”

A few seconds of silence filled the car before Nick speaks, absentmindedly stroking his mustache.

“A part of your soul leaves your body to live in the world of your art, forever.” Nick mutters. “I don’t know, Pete. That’s just how I feel. A part of me becomes something not mine, and he dances with the music as I play it.”

Pete can only nod in response. Nick has always been enthusiastic about music. Tom has been artistic, too. He’s a professional artist as well as being a full-time officer, for God’s sake.

“I guess that’s true for Ron, y’know.” Nick says. “Considering the subjects he deals with daily.”

His fingers skim through the pictures. A Black teenager with shoulder-length braids, grinning widely in her denim overalls. A middle-aged Hispanic man with a box of tobaccos in his hand, smiling softly. One of the portraits depicts a woman and a child, possibly her son, chin-up and looking serene together in the wind.

“Ron’s a good guy, Pete.” Nick smiles and shoots a knowing gaze at his partner in the passenger seat. “I wasn’t joking when I said you’d get along.”

“Yeah.” He answers, lowering his eyes in approval. “I suppose so.”

He closes the file and traces the black lettering on the back of it.

Ron Kerner, it says.

Lined in ink, detailed with colored pencils and some markers. Pete can still feel the strokes of his pencils under his fingertips.